cant anyone copy and paste the article?
i cant bring myself to buy that sensationalist left wing garbage
Football thugs in fancy dress leave true blue fans holding out for a hero
BRIAN VINER
1138 words
12 May 2007
The Independent
1ST
English
(c) 2007 Independent and Media PLC
RUGBY UNION | BRIAN VINER ON SATURDAY
The last proper weekend of the football season always feels to me like the first proper weekend of the cricket season, the weekend when the flannelled fools, not a moment too soon, snatch the spotlight from the muddied oafs. At last I can fully embrace the gentle thwock, on balmy Saturday late-afternoons, of leather on willow.
The noise I heard on a balmy Saturday late-afternoon a week ago, however, was anything but a gentle thwock. It was a terrifying smash, caused not by leather on willow but by baseball bat on lamp, the bat wielded by a ferocious thug almost too drunk to stand, the lamp belonging to Sir Richard Branson, whose Virgin train from Liverpool to London was smashed up in the name of fun and, regrettably, football.
I boarded the 18.10 at Lime Street with a lightness of step, having just seen my team, Everton, secure a Uefa Cup place with a stylish 3-0 win over Portsmouth. With me, similarly full of the joys of spring, was my 12-year-old son, Joe. We also had with us a Canadian woman called Janice and her 12-year-old son, Alex.
We had met Janice and Alex on the platform at Crewe, on our way to the match. Alex is a football nut who follows the Premiership as closely as he can from his home on Vancouver Island. When his parents decided to take him and his two brothers, one older and one younger, on a two-month expedition to Europe, he begged to be taken to an EPL game, as North Americans call them.
Everton v Portsmouth was the only match involving one of the top five clubs that they could get tickets for, and also had the merit of being within relatively easy striking distance of Craven Arms in Shropshire, where they were staying in a youth hostel for four days before moving on to York, then Edinburgh, Paris, Venice and Rome. So while dad took the other boys hiking, mum and Alex headed for Goodison Park. When she realised that we were going to the match too, Janice asked me how they should get from Lime Street to Goodison. I invited them to share a cab with us and then to meet up afterwards for the journey home.
Mine and Joe’s delight at Ever-ton’s victory was intensified by the sight of Alex after the game, sporting a Mikel Arteta badge. He and Janice had sat in the Park End, where all three goals were scored, and he said, bless him, that it had been the “coolest” experience of his young life. He had begun the day as a Manchester United fan but was now converted to Everton, and Arteta, who’d had a blinder, was now his favourite player.
And so to the 18.10. The four of us sat in the first-class compartment designated a quiet zone. But it wasn’t quiet for long. Just before the train set off, about 20 young men got on, chanting. At first I took them for Pompey fans, but one of the chants was “we’re going down”, which confused me. It turned out that they were Brentford supporters, returning from a 2-0 defeat at Tranmere. They weren’t wearing Brentford colours because they were all in fancy dress; among them was a Superman, a Spiderman, a convict and a Jimmy Saville.
At first, Joe and Alex thought the spectacle and the noise hilarious. But slowly the mood began to change. The convict and the Superman had a mock fight, during which they lurched into our table. Alex was still smiling but it was the smile of a boy unsure how amused he ought to be. Janice was beginning to look uneasy. I suggested that we move into the next compartment, which we did, mercifully without the abuse that I thought we might get. A little later we heard some racist chants starting up, doubtless to taunt the Afro-Caribbean ticket-inspector. Later still we heard the splintering of glass, as they took a baseball bat first to the lamps and then to the windows. Unbelievably, we stopped at Crewe and Stafford without any police boarding, and in the end were diverted to Birmingham New Street, where a battalion of officers got on and arrested the worst of the thugs.
What distresses me still is the idea that young Alex’s magical day was soured, although thankfully he and Janice got off at Crewe before the real nastiness began. I am also troubled by the thought that on this page a week ago I expressed my disdain for the Manchester City player Joey Barton, following his training-ground assault on his team-mate Ousmane Dabo, but confessed to the hypocritical hope that Everton might sign him this summer.
For this I was taken to task by a number of readers and I now realise that they were right. What Barton did, and what happened on the 18.10 from Lime Street, are morally indistinguishable. Football needs him no more than it needs them, while what I need is a summer of cricket