Ian Tanner
As equine aficionados know, a Steward’s Enquiry is synonymous with horseracing, the Sport of Kings (supposedly). A Steward’s Inquiry is fast becoming synonymous with what was once a game watched mainly by untitled men at the end of their five-and-a-half-day working week of drudgery, though last month I paid an unmolested farewell visit to Upton Park for the pulsating West Ham United 2, Manchester City 2. I went purely for the sake of nostalgia (see below) you understand, not to see three Gooners past and one Gooner present (who conceded a needless penalty and suffered serious Ian Jury all within the first dozen minutes).
Since ‘the Paris atrocities’, as we must call them in this parallel universe, we Gooners have had to endure not one, but two, physical (and mental) violations before entering THOF for the rest of our “Matchday Experience”. Before our 0-0 demolition of The Saints, I had an “experience” on the South Bridge, where we are now confronted by a cordon of security people. I merely complied with “my” steward and did not say anything. And like any model prisoner confronted by a guard, I avoided eye contact (the first thing one learns when residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for the first time, so I’m told). After he was finished, he obviously thought that I owed him common courtesy; he shouted after me: (with increasing volume) “Thank you … thank you … THANK YOU … IGNORANT”.
Now, I had drummed into me from an early age “always say please and thank you”, and it has paid dividends more often than not. But I don’t think that it’s appropriate here. I was not given a service, advice or anything else I either desired or needed. The virtue-signallers among you may disagree. If so, answer this (pleeeease): do you say “thank you” after airport security have finished patting you down and subjecting you to various other indignities? Thought not. Now tell me what’s the difference. I found his inappropriate aggression offensive but I was not about to turn back, giving him the argument he was trying to provoke, and for which only one of us would be getting paid.
Never forget that fan is short for fanatic. It is a truism that many (dare I say most?) diehard football fans are far, far more likely to change their “partner” than their beloved team, irrespective of their absolute and relative (geddit?) merits. It is also a truism that, by and large, the players we pay fortunes (see below) to watch do not, indeed cannot, have the same love for, and knowledge of, the club that we do. There are exceptions, however. Some players serve, for want of a more appropriate verb, one club their entire playing careers, and even beyond. The ultimate one-club player, though, is one that will always remain true to his club, though not necessarily his wife. Respect?
Even non-Python fans are familiar with The Four Yorkshiremen sketch. Grumpy Tykes compete to “out-nostalgia” one another, each believing their upbringing was more difficult than their three peers’. The other side of The Pennines, Liverpool fanatics are up in arms at the prospect of paying (up to) £77 for certain (not all) matches, a 30%+ hike on the current dearest: £59. A recent report into football finances stated that, despite our still fairly modest ground capacity, Arsenal’s take from match-day revenue is the world’s highest, which enables us to implore the Scousers to: “Calm down, calm down … £77? Luxury! That’s nothing compared with what we fork out!” There is a problem, though. This would not fit the Liverpudlian narrative: ever the put-upon and transgressed.
