The FA Cup - Where were you when....
Coupled with these colourful teardrops of thought are the part where you recall what you were doing when it occurred. I was prone on the floor, screaming with joy. It's not often you get to scream with joy, and I let my vocal chords clang together like church bells, their gleeful sound ripping the serene setting open with a high pitched abandon.
My point, before nostalgia took me by the throat and made me 'fess up, is that these memories, these moments that are forever encapsulated and handed down like a valuable heirloom, are so valuable. You always remember the wheres' and whens'. Mostly.
The Final in the weekend will be forever inscribed upon my grey matter for so many reasons. Much like every Gooner lucky enough to have been witness to the dark romantic comedy that played out in front of us. The 25k that were present at the home of English football. The horde that were at our statuesque abode. The huge number that chose to view at their local watering hole. The untold amount of fans that watched at home. Every. Single. One. We all shared an invisible connection, like a winding umbilical cord that channelled emotions. We will all remember the unfolding events. We will all share these snowglobes filled with time, shaking the pretty flakes and describing to all and sundry what happened. I will do this now.....
I spent all week thinking about the final. Mainly fighting off the huge rat inside my mind nibbling away at good reason and leaving scat tinged with worry in every facet of my mind. I wasn't alone but the majority were quietly confident. I mean, it's Hull for f*ck sake, not a Top 4 Rival......
I pride myself on being nigh-on tee-total. For a Scotsman, that obviously calls into question whether I'm a true Scot or not. I'd had an offer on the table for a couple of weeks from a friend of my brothers to come and watch the Final in his man cave, an elaborate portakabin that had a pool table, a bar and a conveniently placed large TV. This sounds like manna from heaven, but I really wanted to sit alone at home, away from the braying crowd and take in every kick, every moment the camera panned to our fans, the whole shebang. Not only that, but my brother and his friend are notorious drinkers who could quite easily drink a brewery dry. Always barking out " Lets get on it " or " C'mon, have a beer ", peppering me with failed attempts to get me as inebriated as Paul Gascoigne during happy hour. I used to drink, I still enjoy a dram of Famous Grouse, but I had a bad experience which led me to end up sleeping in a graveyard. Repeated attempts to initiate me into the 'LADZ' would only cause me to get vexed. I wanted to enjoy the game, not get f*cking sh!tfaced. A conversation with my wife, who accused me of being 'boring', however, caused me to about turn my decision, become a turncoat and turn my back on sensibility and open my arms to alcohol.
