The day started innocuously enough. One of my companions told me the rumour that, should we get relegated, Phil Wallace was going to sell the club to Graham Westley. Displaying my renowned quick wit – the sort of wit that could see one invited to take part in a live panel show in front of a paying audience – I responded by saying that, should we get relegated, it would be one hell of an expensive way for the manager to secure his job. Or words to that effect. Said in a highly amusing manner.
Three hours later, whilst Peterborough headed north up the A1 with all three points, we retreated to the pub for a few pints and a game of pool. Conversation quickly turned to our defensive frailties and the way in which this season’s team appeared to lose energy after 70 minutes, which was strange for one of Westley’s teams. We also wondered whether Lucas Akins was ever going to control the ball with his feet and not with another miscellaneous part of his body. More drink was consumed and we started riffing on the reasons why Stevenage couldn’t sustain a decent home following. I attempted to articulate an argument but, due to my legendary inability to hold my drink, I was unable to. To those that were there (and anyone else that cares to listen), this is what I meant to say:
When it comes to attendances, Stevenage is simply not playing on a level field. I’ve heard the argument countless times that the inhabitants of our town and the surrounding area are more intent on watching Arsenal, Tottenham, West Ham and Chelsea than travelling the shorter distance to see football in the cheaper, more intimate confines of The Lamex. And I can’t disagree with any of that. The railway station is full of them escaping the town every Saturday. But there’s a reason for this. Those four teams alone have a combined history of 488 years. 488 years!!!
Being a new town, Stevenage is crammed with generations of families who have moved out of London and who’ve supported those teams. I mean, who the fuck would want to go and watch Tottenham Hotspur on a regular basis if they hadn’t been brainwashed into doing so by older generations of knuckle draggers?
And while I think about it, these Premiership clubs are nothing more than cults, indoctrinating supporters into handing over large amounts of money whilst chanting their tired mantras over and over again. Being a member of the West Ham Supporters Club is on a par with being a member of the Moonies. Whilst both organisations may give hope of a more spiritual existence, we all know how that ends for Hammers fans.
For legal reasons, I’m not suggesting for one minute that the Church of Scientology is a cult, but don’t you think there’s more than a coincidence that Tom Cruise once attended the Manchester derby? Especially when he could have gone to see Rochdale instead? To reiterate, the Church of Scientology is not a cult. But you get my point. So, until Stevenage FC employs Charles Manson as its CEO, I’m afraid we’re destined to exist on our present level of support.
The example that bucks this trend is MK Dons. Milton Keynes as a town has only existed since 1967 and its football team is only 10 years old. So why do crowds at Stadium mk significantly surpass those at The Lamex. It’s fairly obvious to me that the Dons are nothing more than an interesting curiosity to the majority of people that pay money to see them play. They are the bearded lady at the fair. Much in the same way that people slow down on the motorway to witness the remnants of a horrific car crash, people actually take pleasure in seeing a Scouse magician’s team of one-trick ponies fail to hit the big time. It’s like going on Facebook to look at your female family and friends taking selfies without the application of make-up, only to realise that they’ve applied the soft filter and taken the picture in a darkened room. Once those gawkers and voyeurs realise that Dr Karl’s magic is nothing more than a cheap illusion, they’ll soon fuck off back to their sofas.
Having failed to provide this insight at the time, I staggered out of the pub, briefly mentioning to my friends that I had been asked to appear on ALOOT Live. One of them replied that surely you needed to be funny to go on something like that. Displaying a complete lack of wit – the absence of which must raise questions about my invitation to take part in a live panel show in front of a paying audience – I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Fake Tales of Broadhall Way 