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It all started early on Saturday morning, not long returned from a party the night before and with only 2� hours sleep behind me. One plane, two trains and a bus later, we were at Earls Court station, not far from our base for the weekend. Stamford Bridge itself was only a walk through the graveyard away from us. With the Bridge, Celtic Park, Pittodrie, what is it about teams building grounds near graveyards?
No sooner had we arrived than it seemed like it was Sunday morning, probably because I blissfully slept through what remained of Saturday. We decided to catch the underground and do some touristy stuff, ready to get moving for Battersea some time after noon.
Now, coming from a predominantly football background, one of things which makes me smile most about American Football is how fans of opposing sides can happily wear their colours, have a blether and be friends. This was never more evident than on the tube back to Earls Court that lunchtime. A couple of Monarchs fans stepped on, we had a chat about the game; had it been football and not American Football it could have been trouble for us. As it is, they said we should probably hammer them, although I have a sneaking suspicion they were just being polite or trying to tempt fate.
We made it to the power party in Battersea Park at around one, after catching more trains and buses and asking for directions along the way. We left about ten past one. If the Claymores ever held a party that bad, I think I would cry. Even during the darkest days of 1995, at least we knew how to party. The Monarchs ... well, it was more like a mobile disco than a party. It was so dull that we had no bother in getting right down to the front of the stage as soon as we arrived.
The organisation of the on-stage events wasn't great. More often than not, the compere would be interrupted by one of the other hosts or a voice from behind the mixing desk, it just didn't seem very professionally-organised at all. There were no live bands, just some decks. It wasn't even a proper stage they were on, just the back of a radio truck. We're far better off with John Collins and Scott Wilson.
The other thing that got me was how everything was so small-scale ... the merchandise was sold from a stall not a tent, and they didn't even have programmes there; the beer tent consisted of two bored-looking blokes sitting atop a couple of cases of expensive bottled beer. About the next most interesting stall was the New Covent Garden Soup Comphhmjmhnuhn
Sorry. Just thinking about it made me nod off. So, yes, we left pretty soon on a shuttle bus for the ground. We were the only Claymores on that particular bus, but once more the atmosphere wasn't tense but relaxed and light-hearted. When the bus arrived at Stamford Bridge, there was just time for a quick drink in the Cross-Eyed Newt (which was about twice as busy as the power party) before going across to the stadium.
Stamford Bridge may be in the process of being re-built, but it looked more like Stamford Bridge was falling down to me. When you see the main stand and the Matthew Harding Stand on telly, it looks very impressive, but when you see the state the other two bits are in just now, the place looks like a bit of a dump. Maybe we've just been spoiled with Murrayfield. I noticed it was quite cold where the Claymores fans were sitting, in the top deck of the East stand, a bit windy too. Someone should have told Wayne Lammle.
Ah yes, the game. The fun had to end somewhere. Yet another one to mark down in the losses column, but that's for discussion in Grind, we're dealing with more important matters here. While the comperes at the power party hadn't worked too well, they did form a good double-act inside the stadium, with one bloke doing the John Collins bit and the other getting the crowd to do that stupid bloody tomahawk thing. If I ever hear that again in my life, it'll be too soon. They kept things moving along well, if I remember correctly the choice of music wasn't too bad either.
So, with the game over and us defeated again I find that somebody's spilled beer over my programme, all the pages have stuck together. That's one of the main reasons why I'm against selling beer inside the ground ... whenever some is going to get spilled, it'll end up all over me. It happened at the World Bowl too, the only difference being that that day I could have been showered in horse manure and I wouldn't have given a toss.
On Sunday, though, it just summed up the way the game went ... the third Claymores game I've been at this year, and the third loss. Still, result apart, it was a good weekend, and I can't wait until next year.