I arrived in Sheffield on the 10:20 train, buzzin’ with exciting as I began my summer exhibition of new sport. With no footy on for at least six weeks down the Emirates, I thought perhaps it was time to branch out a little, become a bit cultured and embrace these other kind of games.
As I took my seat in the Crucible Theatre, I felt excited despite being unsure of what to expect. I looked over my shoulder to see if I could spot any superstars in the director’s box, but I could only to see some bloke in massive glasses looking as though he was about to fall asleep. Weirdo…
I was there to see some bloke called Ronnie and a fat lad called Lee. I thought I’d do a bit of glory seeking and I’d take on the role of a Ronnie supporter because apparently, he won the Prem last season. As the chaps walked into the ground, my first thought was why the hell are they dressed like waiters? There was the usual fanfare of noise and the crowd were graceful in their applause. Me? Well I was off my seat swingin’ my Gunner’s top around my head and howling, “Come onnnn son!” The steward soon put an end to my torrent of noise.
The stadium announcer introduced the two teams and as he called out the name of Lee, I heckled out at the top of my voice, “You’re fat, and you know you are… you fat bastard, you fat bastard…” I got another glare from that steward. Flippin’ boring sod he was.
The lads shook hands and tossed a coin for kick off; Ronnie won. “Come on Ronnie” some fella yelled from behind. Ahh here we go I was thinking to myself. Ronnie bent over the table and lined his stick up towards the white. As he launched, I gave it a, “Woooooohhhhhh wheyyyyyy.” The ball bounced off the touchline three or four times and across the park. Bit boring really…
As the pork pie muncher got out of his chair for a go, I was waiting for the fellow supporters to ‘boooooohhh,’ but it never came. He strolled up to the table, had a glance, looked at the ref, and before you know it, the lazy sod had the ref cleaning the white ball for him! I couldn’t help but think about what’d happen down the Emirates if Howard Webb strolled over and cleaned the ball for Delap throw-in! Bloody carnage!
About five minutes went by with both teams missing the target. They kept hitting reds instead of the other colours; even I could hit a red. The crowd was shit. I contemplated ‘you only sing when you’re winning’ but with being on my last warning I thought against it. Instead I launched a beach ball across the room, only for some wifey about four rows in front to catch and then burst it. Stupid cow.
The game went on, and on, and on, and on. Ronnie was about 40 nil in front or something like that, and the geezer next to me told me he’d won the frame. Well I was looking all over for some sort of Picasso jobby… don’t know what the hell he was on about but seen as Ronnie had won something, I thought it was time for some celebrations. I jumped out my seat and sang proudly, “There’s only one Rocket Ronnie, one Rocket Ronnie…” You wouldn’t believe what happened. I was promptly told to shut up by the referee! Get that, the referee interfering with the fans; can you believe it?
I was proper bored and I’d only been watching about 20 minutes. I gave my mate Dave a prank to tell him the crack, and sure enough when he rang me back and my ringtone bleated out ‘Ian Wright, Wright, Wright,’ I was ushered out the ground by the posh northerner who’d been given me grief since I arrived.
I was stuck in the entrance, starvin’ hungry and gaggin’ for a pint. Could I find a Pukka Pie? Could I heck… I was back on the train to London at 11:30 with the conclusion of:
Don’t watch snooker, football is better than snooker, and snooker is shit.
Simon Bourne (Site Editor)