The news emanating from Tynecastle was hardly unexpected but extremely depressing all the same. A winding-up order for £450,000 of unpaid tax meant there's a possibility that Hearts v St. Mirren next week could be the last game the club play.
Could the club do a Sevco? Doubtful. Edinburgh already has two well run non-league sides, City and Spartans, who have the facilities, playing staff and financial stability to be an asset to the Scottish League. This really could be the ignominious end to Glorious Hearts.
Today was Cup Final day too. Time to get my penny farthing to the tram station and perambulate to the Kennington Oval. The 1872 FA Cup was having a return match this evening. Last time out, Wanderers had upset the odds and lifted the Cup with a 1-0 win. Royal Engineers were out for revenge. So I in turn was out in London on a Wednesday.
Until we saw the price of their food. £4.50 for a pasty? I'd rather starve. Luckily, though, they told us there was another gaff upstairs doing roast dinners. Blimey. We head off there. £6.40 for a proper roast beef dinner. That'll do. For Bri, Ed, Jo and Dad. This vegetarian decides that £4.50 is still too much and lets his half a ton of body fat keep him going for the night.
We took our seats on the balcony. Well, no, we didn't. Ed kept saying if a door's not meant to be opened, it'd be locked. We opened the one that lead to the Surrey boardroom. Inside was a replica of the FA Cup, surrounded by poppies, to be given to tonight's winners. We feigned being lost and asked if we could take pics. The staff grinned through this obvious fib and let us. Best sports venue staff bar none at the Oval.
With Bri and Jo looking like a cross between Rab C Nesbitt and Uncle Bulgaria, Ed decided he'd show just how namby pamby they were at the interval. He stripped to the waist. We then told him stripping to the waist meant the top half, not the bottom half. He duly obliged. Geordie Ed topless on the pavilion balcony. How on earth could anyone ever tell Essex people had infiltrated The Oval?
Soon after, the whistle blows, and David Gold comes out to present the Cup to Wanderers. The cup we had first dibs on a couple of hours ago. Respect to Mr. Gold. Ed had been given bother by the West Ham ticket office. He tweeted David Gold. Within 30 minutes Ed had the tickets he wanted. Definitely the good man in the West Ham 'Good, Bad, Ugly' trio of owners. I won't say which one Karron Brady is.
Could the club do a Sevco? Doubtful. Edinburgh already has two well run non-league sides, City and Spartans, who have the facilities, playing staff and financial stability to be an asset to the Scottish League. This really could be the ignominious end to Glorious Hearts.
Would I support any phoenix club? I just don't know. There's something about Hearts, financial woes aside, that make them different, special. Should they lose that and just become an identikit starter club, stripped of what made them unique, there certainly won't be the love for them that I have now.
Time to snap out of the bad news. I'd had a grand night following the US election on Sky News and watching Karl Rove go from happy, to concerned, to miserable, to angry, to denial, to meltdown, then finally to breakdown as Ohio's car workers told Romney what they thought of his "Let Detroit go bankrupt" comment. Chortle, chortle, and triple chortle. Oh, and chortle.
Today was Cup Final day too. Time to get my penny farthing to the tram station and perambulate to the Kennington Oval. The 1872 FA Cup was having a return match this evening. Last time out, Wanderers had upset the odds and lifted the Cup with a 1-0 win. Royal Engineers were out for revenge. So I in turn was out in London on a Wednesday.
The old firm of Bri and Ed were in for this one. Joining us for the first time for a night of raucous witticisms and cynicism was Jo and her Dad. Last time I spent a game standing with Jo was at Cockfosters. I think it was an act of real restraint and chivalry to not even mention where we were to her and enquire if she had ... no, I won't even say it here. Such a gent, me.
A special occasion deserved special seats. We were in the pavilion balcony. To get there we had to enter an open passage through a Members Entrance. No chortling, please, this is proper posh. Snigger. Not even 6pm and already enough material for a series of Are You Being Served?
You've got to hand it to The Oval, the staff there were absolutely spot on. In such grand surroundings, you might have half expected a snobbish attitude, the sort you get from staff at Essex Cricket Club. Not tonight though. Very smartly presented, yes, like any posh place. But welcoming and friendly, each and every one of them. Surrey Cricket Club have something very, very right going on.
Until we saw the price of their food. £4.50 for a pasty? I'd rather starve. Luckily, though, they told us there was another gaff upstairs doing roast dinners. Blimey. We head off there. £6.40 for a proper roast beef dinner. That'll do. For Bri, Ed, Jo and Dad. This vegetarian decides that £4.50 is still too much and lets his half a ton of body fat keep him going for the night.
Prior to that, we'd had a peek at the old and current FA Cups. As people were having their pictures taken with them, I noted that they were showing the regular groundhopper trait of having their bag in with the pic of them. And looking bloody miserable about it.
Not me. After all, I had knocked a team out of the FA Cup this season. I took my moment with a wink, arms aloft, glorying in my moment. And no, wink is not a spelling mistake. Bri and Ed also grinned like Cheshire cats. Maybe it's an Essex thing but when we're at the football we tend to look like we're enjoying it. Even though, watching Southend United and Bowers & Pitsea amongst others, we patently don't.
We took our seats on the balcony. Well, no, we didn't. Ed kept saying if a door's not meant to be opened, it'd be locked. We opened the one that lead to the Surrey boardroom. Inside was a replica of the FA Cup, surrounded by poppies, to be given to tonight's winners. We feigned being lost and asked if we could take pics. The staff grinned through this obvious fib and let us. Best sports venue staff bar none at the Oval.
Anyway, yes, the balcony. We looked out and it was pretty spectacular. To our right, that famous old gasworks - just like Concord, I guess - and in the distance fireworks going off with St. Paul's Cathedral in the background. Absolutely stunning. Or Occupy London have returned. Either way it looked superb.
The teams came out, Wanderers being supported by Bri and Jo, who liked their kit, which resembled a tube of refreshers. One of their grey to white haired players looked like he had played in the original match. Their manager for the night, Bobby Gould, probably had.
We settled down to our normal match day viewing. Everyone else watching, me just looking around, turning to other people for a chat, and missing goals. There were plenty to miss as well. Royal Engineers were no more than averagely okay. Wanderers were appallingly poor. 6-0 at half time, including a free kick I'd turned my back on to discuss a Simpsons episode, thinking the Wanderers defence couldn't be so bad as to let it in from there.
With Bri and Jo looking like a cross between Rab C Nesbitt and Uncle Bulgaria, Ed decided he'd show just how namby pamby they were at the interval. He stripped to the waist. We then told him stripping to the waist meant the top half, not the bottom half. He duly obliged. Geordie Ed topless on the pavilion balcony. How on earth could anyone ever tell Essex people had infiltrated The Oval?
The second half continued its weary way, with the small crowd endearing themselves to Wanderers incompetence, the biggest cheer coming when they made it 6-1. Did I see it? Did I f ... orget to look around and watch what was going on.
We wandered down to the boundary fence, right by the Royal Engineers bench. After I'd sat for a minute or two in the warm and the comfy chairs by the pavilion entrance. Bliss. I take a seat just behind the female physio that looked worryingly like Jimmy Savile from the back. Within a minute it's 7-1.
Soon after, the whistle blows, and David Gold comes out to present the Cup to Wanderers. The cup we had first dibs on a couple of hours ago. Respect to Mr. Gold. Ed had been given bother by the West Ham ticket office. He tweeted David Gold. Within 30 minutes Ed had the tickets he wanted. Definitely the good man in the West Ham 'Good, Bad, Ugly' trio of owners. I won't say which one Karron Brady is.
Bobby Gould also swings over, replete with Mancini scarf and black leather manager's coat. There's a look of genuine happiness in his eyes as he signs the autographs and poses for pictures. You can see he's a football man through and through and just loved being out on that touchline. There's a real warmth in his smile and chat despite the coldness of the evening. A good man.
We make our way home and Jo's Dad swings into action. Usain Bolt has nothing on him when finding station platforms and what tube and train to catch. Within about five seconds he was 30 yards ahead of us, heading off towards the Northern line. The last time Freddy Eastwood was that fast was in the queue for a Tony Dow 'Animal Burger'.
As the train heads homewards, Bri is gripped with fear. The last time he fell asleep on the train home, the world of Facebook knew all about it. He feared a bit of Buckeroo should he nod off tonight. Oh no. Ed whispered something far, far worse. I've never seen someone so determined to stay awake ever. Which was a pity as an Ed lapdance on him would have gone viral on youtube.
We got home, and somehow, my faith in what used to be the greatest club knock-out competition in the world was restored. If it could unite reprobates from all over the place, and all walks of life, to share a freezing night in South London and bloody enjoy it, anything was possible.
Ah, the magic of the Cup.
Royal Engineers 7, Wanderers 1
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