From the Cottage to Prison

My first experience of Fulham away was back in 2007. A 3-3 draw which saw a debut goal from a certain Gareth Bale, a screamer from Dimitar Berbatov and a completely one-sided Spurs performance thrown away and ultimately sacrificed to an incredible over head kick late on from Diomansy Kamara (remember him?).

If memory serves me well, I think two of the Fulham goals managed to lob Paul Robinson despite being on his line on both occasions. Even if none of the above is true, it all sounds tremendously ‘on brand’. It was also the beginning of the end for Martin Jol. There was a lot of support for Mr Jol that day in the away end. I for one had taken off my footwear and was holding them aloft singing ‘SHOES OFF FOR MARTIN JOL’.

My chant of solidarity began to pick up with many of my fellow fans surrounding me, also beginning to remove their own shoes and indeed hold them high above their heads singing along. At the very moment Martin glanced in our direction from the dugout, my arms were being pulled down rather aggressively by a policeman, the old bill had arrived into the away end fairly mob handed, insisting that all shoes must be lowered and put back on feet otherwise we’d be ejected from the stadium immediately. Now, I’m not a man of the law, but I’ve always been slightly baffled as to why it is an offence to wear one’s shoes on ones hands but not on ones feet. I’m sure the opposite would not apply to gloves.

To this day, I still think of Martin Jol every time I take my shoes off (think about that for a moment). The loveable coach had somewhat accidentally become the Spurs manager a couple years prior, initially a sidenote with the arrival of Jacques Santini and Frank Arnesen. Martin Jol quickly became a fan favourite once at the helm and to this day goes down as one of the best we’ve had in the modern era. He really turned things around and brought a belonging back to the fanbase.

He played attacking football, wore his heart on his sleeve, was tough, funny and would for sure give the most reassuring hugs if you needed one. But most of all, it was fun to support Spurs again.

Sound familiar?

A couple more visits over the years, I saw a dreary 0-0 draw played out early one Boxing Day and an utterly miserable 3 or 4-0 drubbing in the FA Cup in which I believe Michael Dawson saw red early on. I’ve clearly attempted to remove that entirely from memory. I was also here earlier this year to watch the only Spurs away win I witnessed last season. A typically drudgy Conte performance, that saw a moment of class from he who shall not be named separate the teams. It turned out to be Antonio’s last game before he fell ill and probably the last time the fans really sang his name and had his back, perhaps through obligation more than anything else. It was a midweek game under the floodlights, wet and fairly cold but the away end was bouncing.

The singing didn’t stop from start to finish that night; so with this Tuesday night’s additional cup allocation and a whole new belief in the new Ange / post Kane era I’m feeling optimistic about the match and excited about my first game of the season having missed the previous three.

For anyone not lucky enough to have watched a match at Craven Cottage, it’s a truly magnificent experience. The history and utter English-ness of the beautiful cottage that stands proud in the corner, still hosting the players while they change and walk out diagonally across the pitch to the bench. In this modern age it’s bizarre and long may it continue. But the fact that you can hear the teams talking to each other on the pitch and the ref shouting at them, you can practically smell the players; a perfect cocktail of Vicks Vapour Rub, testosterone and leather.

Getting Spurs away tickets isn’t easiest at the best of times. It’s especially difficult for a London derby that hosts a small away end. For years I worked in an office in the Fulham Palace building. A delightful hidden gem of London, whilst a ball ache to get to from north London, a lovely surrounding to work in. Fulham, being the family club they are (I bet they hate that) used to have a mixed end, situated next to the away end, which when teams with support like Spurs were visiting would arrive to find it wasn’t mixed at all. I used to pop out on my lunch break to the ticket office and get a ‘mixed end’ ticket on the date of their availability.

That doesn’t appear to the the case anymore and so I wasn’t surprised to see my application fall short due to lack of loyalty points. To say I’m lacking in loyalty is a bit rich but I understand the club can’t track my loyalty (unless they read the Fighting Cock blog) because the only way I can go to these games is to get the tickets from fans who have been travelling home and away for decades and have spares. To immerse oneself amongst these guys is a full time job in itself, they can smell a rat. I’ve been in deep cover for over 5 years now, I’ve gone full Donnie Brasco. My Lefty Rugggiero (aka Al Pacino) in this instance shall go unnamed. A friend of ours… forget about it… etc etc.

In response to recent events at the club I’ve decided to start my own ‘Exploitation of Loyalty’ scheme, and so this evening I’m joined by my trusty cohorts Ash and Mark. Last time I was on the road with Mark we witnessed a capitulation at Southampton which ended in Conte’s own personal implosion and in turn the last we ever saw of him. As for Ash, it was an FA Cup defeat at Palace under Poch. I want to say it was 1-0 but can’t be sure (another Spurs memory mentally ‘moved to trash’).

As we pull into Putney Bridge station there’s Spurs fans everywhere and a sense of excited anticipation in the air. We should know better but it’s been so bad for so long, who can blame us for temporarily feeling invincible. The 8 Bells pub is full and we’re advised to go to the Kings Arms where we find Sandro welcoming us at the door, taking pics with fans and shouting ‘come on the Spurs’. Not sure what has lead him to this point in life at the age of 34 but I’m into it, big time.

Eventually we find ourselves riverside sipping a couple tinnies watching what must be a thousand Spurs fans arriving by an open top white and blue boat, the noise coming from this vessel was incredible. Conversation drifts from 1970s horror classic The Omen (filmed in this very park) to another ominous subject; the new pink kit but is it pink or brown? Which of course leads us to that spectacular brown kit, which the club insisted on referring to as ‘chocolate’ and once again back to Berbatov and Fulham away. We’ve come full circle. What a lovely old time we were having. Then it drops on us, like a piano from a window…the starting 11.

I don’t need to write about the football, we all saw it. It felt like a bonus Conte game that was part of his severance package. Let’s please not blame Sanchez for having the minerals to take a penalty (ahead of some others I’m hasten to add). Although I must say I’m not entirely sure about Forster’s technique of sitting down before each Fulham spot kick was taken. The Spurs faithful were incredible, singing throughout. I’m loathed to mention Michael Macintyre acting like a bell-end but his heart is in the right place. I would also like to omit the desperation of the McDonalds inhaled on the way home but they do say ‘write what you know’.

Let’s have it right, we cannot expect NINE changes under a new regime to work, especially away at Premier League opposition. It was a bad day at the office and a quick learning curve for Ange and possibly (as I look for the positives) a reality check for us fans. Truth be told, I’m gutted. We find ourselves out of the cup before we’re usually in it…welcome to Spurs Ange.

This week Ivan Toney said he was in a ‘football prison’. Aren’t we all mate, aren’t we all.