From bad to worse
10/02/05 | by James Scott-Warren

With the general rant over (see my other article for that), the actual action on pitches, and unfortunately board rooms, over the country has had a profound effect on one in the more hostile footballing lands of student land. While Gary Megson, at least at this moment, appears to be dragging us kicking and screaming towards possible victories –  well we’re not conceding any – things are far from perfect.

Of course, the most notable event has been, at least for those within gloating distance of a Spurs fan (this can be anything up to 3 miles), the transfer of the only two buoyancy aids on the side of the sinking ship, Andy Reid and Michael Dawson. However, if it stopped there life would be fine, the only problem is that it doesn’t.

At the time, the Reid/Dawson transfers (still separately planned at this stage) rumbled on, promising more fun to come. Comparative joy came when news emerged of Reid going to Southampton – going there would be harmless. "At least it’s not Spurs," I thought and in fact told people – oh but they were still there, lurking. I still didn’t feel better being assured that Spurs didn’t need Reid, they seemed to have brought half the footballing world already and, despite Harry’s claims, all sides appeared to have agreed on a deal – but no. 

Imagine it, crawling out of bed at an hour that would delight people who have the student stereotype firmly lodged into their head, I turn on the laptop and hop on to the web to find the FA Cup 5th Round draw (yes, it was that late). Slowly the eyes adjust to the screen, first picking out Forest, away. "That doesn’t look good", was the first thought in my head, holding hands with the knowledge of our, well, modest, away form. Split seconds later I scan over to the other side of the screen to find our opponents – WBA or Tottenham Hotspur, proclaims the website – oh no. As soon as gaining a level of consciousness enabling me to function outside my box-room I venture out – mission 1 – find the Spurs fan (if he’s awake) – he’s not – safe for the time being. Or am I? Someone’s here – who are they? – who do they support? It’s okay, it’s the Stockport fan, the only person more resigned to relegation than me here, but he’s seen the draw, the gloating begins, this is nothing, worse is to come.

The day was not going well: stars probably on the way out and the cup run just about ended, especially now I’d had time to digest reports on the win over Peterborough, the fact that most referred to it as a "lucky" or "undeserved" win with Peterborough "controlling" the second half. That was bad, but this was worse – suddenly Reid and Dawson where packing their backs for White Hart Lane, together any gloating that originated in the cup draw would now have well and truly hit the fan, in hindsight it probably broke the fan. 

After cowering away from football for what was left of the afternoon, 5 o’clock rolled round – that’s time for food for those unsurprisingly unaware of the timetable in catered accommodation. The nerves where steeled for a trip out, possibly to talk to the Spurs fan. I opened the door; there he was, walking down the corridor with a sarcastic grin that rivalled the Channel Tunnel in size. I promptly wanted to go back in, but it was no use, I’d have to face it. "Thank you," he smiled as he walked past. I’d accepted it as inevitable that at least one would leave, but this! Discussing both players, I took joy in highlighting their bad points – for instance, Dawson’s apparent drop in form in a few years – in some kind of desperate attempt that the Spurs management were sitting in their fans’ heads, listening.

It didn’t work, back from food, back on the internet, sniffing out the latest details. Not only had they not heard my less than glowing recommendations but we’d accepted the bid – £8 million. Somehow, something inside said it was a good deal even though I was fully aware that most would bypass the transfer fund and head to debt re-payments. I didn’t feel angry, I’d accepted they would leave. At least they were going to a more ambitious club – not [expletive deleted] Norwich.

Minutes later, a knock. Who could this be? as if I couldn’t guess. In he strolled. "Have you heard?" he asked. Maybe I could dash round him and lock the door before attacking him with something  – a coat hanger was close to hand – nothing too serious, I’ve still got to live with him. "Yes," I said, restraining from abusing him with household implements.

On just about any other night that would have been it – we’d accepted the bid and all reports showed the pair where on their way to North London to discuss personal terms and take a medical. Unfortunately this wasn’t any other night, this was the night the Hall of Residence powers-that-be decided to test the fire alarm and the reaction and tempers of the residents – 3 times! At each gathering of the cold and annoyed in the courtyard he took great pleasure in updating me on the latest news from the Spurs website: they were taking their medicals, and then the great news, on the last trip away from the two-tone alarm at 12 to midnight, I was told that Reid had signed but there was no news on Dawson. As we trekked back in it had just gone midnight, I knew they’d both signed, the 12 hours of football hell were over.

That was a week ago. He continues, thanking me for Reid after his performance on Saturday and warning of impending doom if they get through their replay and Mido (or Fido as I would like to refer to him in a schoolboy act of revenge) is unleashed on the same pitch as Gregor Robertson. Guess who’ll be cheering on West Brom at the weekend.