The Johnny Rozzer
As a silver member, I’d decided to avoid further overdraft-growth, not to mention possible frostbite, and take in the replay in the comfort of my lounge with a bottle of Old Speckled and my wife and kids banished from the room to allow me to express the full range of emotions that watching the Arse generates.
However, as so often in life, an unexpected twist was about to change my plans. Monday night, at work, dealing with some silly 18-year-old who’d been slightly over-exuberant during an argument with his sister, and my mobile rings. Fletch flashes up on my screen and, as I answer, I immediately recognise his soothing Welsh tones. Fletcher is from the valleys but is a West Ham fan, having married, lived and worked around East London for over 30 years. The phone reception isn’t great but I hear enough to know that he is inviting me to the game and that it won’t cost me anything.
I tell him I’ll confirm in the morning after the usual application for leave is made with wifey, family-planner in hand. In fairness, after 20 years as an Arsenal widow, my wife rarely disappoints and as the purse strings won’t be stretched, it’s a” Go, go, go”. I speak to Fletch and he explains that his brother knows John Flynn (assistant referee) and that we will be his guest at the match. Fletch mentions a buffet pre and post-match and I’m left thinking that I may be about to join the prawn sandwich brigade.
Wednesday arrives and I have a little extra zip in my step as I walk from Highbury and Islington. We’re due to meet around 5:30pm and, as I’m a bit early, I take the opportunity to have a wander around the Megastore without having to say ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ as is the usual experience as you bump and barge your way around pre-match.
I meet Fletch opposite the store and we wander in to the Media centre reception. A telephone is lifted and a couple of minutes later a gentleman in what I guess is his late 60s approaches and shakes us both by the hand. Tony Ward is an ex-Premiership ref, although my later Wikipedia search suggests only fairly briefly in the early 90s. He is now employed as Arsenal’s referee liaison officer and clearly loves his role.
We are led through the players’ car park and, as we do, I am distracted by a familiar Midlands accent calling out Tony’s name. I turn to see Smudger in his rather nice Range Rover and am close enough to see that, disappointingly, he has washed the Anfield '89 mud mark from his face.
We continue with Tony into the stadium and he tells us he is actually a Sp**s supporter. I assume that years of having to feign impartiality has dulled his senses. Tony is fond of name-dropping and he casually tells us that Pat Rice used to call Theo 1 in 10. Tony needn’t have explained but he confirmed my suspicion that our once-great coach was of the opinion that Wally only turned it on occasionally. We arrive at the Officials’ Lounge, and Mark Clattenburg, Flynn and Simon Beck immediately stand and shake us both by the hand. Clattenburg looks, if anything even younger and more tanned than I imagined, and I find that if I listen carefully I can even make out some of his North East dialect. The lounge is fairly small, Sky TV, three small round tables and a long table with sandwiches and drink along one wall.
After a little small talk, Tony takes Fletch, myself and another chap on a little tour, beginning with the officials’ changing room. It’s fairly basic, but adequate for three, the most interesting thing being that Sky Sports is on the wall-mounted TV which I presume means that any dodgy first-half decisions can be reviewed by the ref during televised games. Tony informs us that Arsenal are the only club to provide the officials with a masseur, before we get a quick look at the female assistants’ room. Rarely used obviously, but apparently an overspill on European nights.
We then wander through the press lounge, where a quick glance suggests, as I have heard, that the journos get well treated by Arsenal. Fletch tells me he sees John Barnes produce a classic body swerve in an attempt to jump the queue to the hot buffet. It’s out through the tunnel next and, having never previously had Arsène’s view of the pitch, it’s obvious that when he says he didn’t see something clearly, he’s probably being honest. There’s no way you can properly judge a team’s performance from down there. When I sometimes think I’m watching a different game from the Clock End, I know why now.
Up to the Directors’ restaurant situated overlooking the halfway line. Now, I’d still rather stand at matches, but if you have to sit then the view from there is exceptional. I note that the away team’s directors are seated next to the window, allowing them the option of watching the game whilst shielded from the elements.
It’s 6:30 by now and we head back to the Officials’ Lounge where I spend a very interesting half hour in conversation with Brandon, a 6'5" American who has flown in from New York to liaise with the refs’ assessor. Brandon is an ex-NBA player who now works for the NBA and has come over to pick up a few bits of best practice. He tries to convince me that basketball is a worthwhile game but fails.
7pm and Clattenburg and his assistants return all kitted up. A few jokes to lighten the mood and they disappear as I mull over how I will deal with seeing him after the game if he has cost us a place in the fourth round.
Our seats are just below the North-West corner scoreboard, OK - Jumbo Tron or whatever it is. Great view, but I don’t like being so far removed from the action. The first half is a bit of a non-event and Clattenburg does not have to blow his whistle or move from the centre circle in the first 10 minutes. It is a relatively easy game for both sets of defenders and officials. The second half sees Arsenal and Jacky in particular come to life. Clattenburg rightly waves away a possible handball on the line whilst John Flynn makes a few offside decisions. As we move towards 90 mins I am becoming increasingly frustrated at the thought of another 30 mins of freezing toes and having to wait for my hot post-match buffet. Jack then gets the goal he deserves and it’s back to the lounge where Ray Lewington has appeared. He’s a very small nondescript man and when I ask him whether the Chelsea score of 2-2 is a result, he ignores me and it is left to one of the other guests to enlighten me. I had forgotten he once played for that shower and so I put his rudeness down to my over-zealous celebrations on hearing that they had thrown away a two-goal lead.
As I eat my lasagne and make the most of the cheese board, washed down with a few lagers, the thought occurs to me to do a Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places when he decides to stuff a host of delicacies down his top. I am prevented from doing so by the thought of hitting the press after being caught on my way out due to the overwhelming stench of Camembert. The door to the room is left open, and from about 9:45 the players drift past. Whenever I get close to players I am struck by how small they seem and Vermaelen in particular leaves me thinking that if I were a big centre-forward I would relish a physical battle with him.
The referees’ assessor appears and goes off to speak with Clattenburg et al, and Fletch and I leave without getting chance to speak with them post-match. All in all, a fantastic night, a decent Arsenal performance and a rare insight into the match-day routines of those blokes we love to hate.
