Robert brought me some tea up before he and Carol set off for his school football match. It was freezing and I sat by the fire reading about the medieval monarchs of England until they came back. Bacon sarnies for lunch and then Robert and I set off for the match.
We got to Wettenston Road half way through the first half. The Athletic supporters were caged up at one end of the ground, and for the most part showed little enthusiasm for the match, which was a typical mid-table slog of hoof balls and plenty of whistle. We were locked behind a big iron gate supervised by two loutish officials in bright green waistcoats. During the second half, these craggy faced morons and their loudmouth pig friends started shouting and swearing at us, spitting and gesturing at one Pakistani lad in particular. The police stood benignly at the back, smiling and talking. I felt angry. Ten minutes from time, Elmfield scored with a jammy header that sneaked between Ackroyd and the post. After the game, a few of the Athletic thugs stole a flag and we were locked in our cage (“No flag, no home”) until it was handed back.
Records and telly all evening.
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