A sure sign that the football season is coming to an end. The friendlier, more fun, and cheaper Super League is back today - or in this case the evening. The London Broncos, somehow, were deemed suitably attractive to have the Sky cameras around as they took on a side from one of Britain's grimmest cities.
Hull Kingston Rovers were descending on the Stoop again, but after that 90 point thriller on the last day of the 2012 season, the possibility was strong that from such grime would spring forth a cracker. Chipper and I hoped so as we took in the late winter coldness wandering down Oxford Street in the afternoon.
I therefore try to go without, to make sure we get along to whatever Super League or Challenge Cup games we can. So this week I was on economy line noodles and instant mash for the week. And on the toilet for the next month or so afterwards. Which means economy line toilet roll. So probably best not to shake my hand for a long while afterwards too.
Anyway, hand stains aside, the Broncos had started the season completely inverse to the end of the last one. When they'd last played the Robins they'd ended up winning 4 out of their last 5. 2013 had overseen 4 out of 5 defeats. All that optimism Tony Rea had built up had dissipated. Again.
Things weren't quite as bad as they seemed though. 3 of the defeats were to teams expected to be well up into the title mix. The other was to a side being thrown money at it. The only side they were expected to compete for positions with, Salford, they'd hammered last week. They'd also given Wigan a bit of a scare up at the DW Stadium too in the first half. The Broncos weren't quite as bad as it looked.
As for the Robins, same old same old really. In a bottom six position but capable of beating the best when they felt like it. A decent away support and you have to feel sorry for a place that spawned John Prescott and the bloke who earned his money sticking his fist up Basil Brush's arse.
The train fare and paying for tickets had almost cleaned me out but thankfully the chippy by Twickenham station gave huge portions at knock-down prices, so Chipper was fed and watered regally. Providing the Queen likes chip butties and a can of 7Up. Wandering to the ground, it was evident that a few Hull KR lads had spent the day drinking in London. Loud and incoherent. Or perhaps it was Eddie & Stevo.
When we got to the club shop, hurrah, they're giving stuff away. Foam hands. That is so 1978. I'm not sure if the club are being ironically retro or seriously out of touch but hey, we have to take some and proceed to piss around with them. I doubt the Sky cameras will focus on people giving a large one finger salute, which is a bonus.
We get to our seats, and soon after kick-off the Hull KR drunks turn up. But they've made a serious error. They've had that one or two too many, and crossed from loud and drunk to aggressive and abusive. They don't realise it. But the stewards do. I'd seen these lads in action last year when a few gobby Salford fans were put in their place. Sod the rugby, this is going to be some spectacle.
The stewards wander over and try to calm the lads down. They're not threatening anyone, just being arses and spoiling it for people round them, and they're asked to just quieten it down a bit. One of them takes exception. He looks like he failed the auditions for the Chuckle Brothers so is hardly likely to intimidate. He makes the mistake, however, of swearing and trying to whack one of the pink hi-viz jacketed stewards.
Pop, pop, pop. The response from the stewards is as impressive as it is quick. The drunk is staggered, not by the alcohol, not even by the speed and strength of the clips to him, but the shock of a steward actually doing their job and not taking any nonsense. His mates immediately become placatory, holding hands up, sitting down, nodding as the stewards tell them what's expected of them. In pink. Chortle.
Soon after, the drunk gets out of his seat, and calmly strolls to the steward in front of Chipper and I. He puts his arm around him and apologises. The steward asks him if he always gets this pissed at the rugby. His reply? "I'm not drunk. I just like a fight." Perhaps the best thing I've ever heard said to a steward. Multiple chortling.
It's a whole lot better than what's happening on the field. By half time Broncos are being thrashed 6-30. High kicks were being allowed to bounce and be pounced upon. Michael Witt, having temporarily got his side back into the game at one point, in the next minute throws to ball straight to a Robins player for a giveaway try. London are a shambles, knocking on and being forced into touch regularly, a pale imitation of the side that ended 2012 so brightly, or even of last week.
It's a comforting place for Chipper and I. We don't embrace defeat or ineptitude, but we are familiar with their work. We also know Tony Rea will have them all guns blazing in the second half. With nothing now to lose, there seems, oddly, to be that more hope than if they were just a few points down. This could be a cracker.
As sure as night follows day, under the darkened Twickenham skies, the Broncos storm back into it. They force a couple of goal line drop-outs, gain a penalty, and Kieran Dixon, the Broncos one player that would get into any other Super League side, darts into the corner. Suddenly the Stoop is alive again.
Just as suddenly, the errors aren't coming from the Broncos but from everyone else. Big error by the Rovers full back, dropping the ball like that. Chris Bailey grabs it but is held up crashing over the try-line. It goes to the video ref who inevitably will give no try. Unbelievably, a try is given. The Hull KR fans around us are rightly angry. There was no way Bailey scored. Except he has now. 18-30. Game on.
The only thing is, of course, is that this is London Broncos we're talking about. After their brief spell of inspiring rugby, they revert to making arses of themselves. A couple more Hull KR tries send the visitors home happy, even if Dan Sarginson has the final say.
We do get something out of the evening though. That brief moment, when from total shite came hope, maybe even belief, that another remarkable turnaround was on. The adrenaline that coursed through the veins at the time was intoxicating. And, of course, stewards dressed in pink punching a drunk. Unrivalled entertainment.
As we made our way home, mingling totally unfettered with the Hull KR supporters, the night, and London, was their oyster. Despite the defeat, despite the lack of money, somehow Chipper and I had smiles on our faces courtesy of London Broncos. Sometimes, it seems anything is possible. And if Simon Cowell ever stops being a c***, then anything is.
But he won't. The c****.
London Broncos 22, Hull Kingston Rovers 42
Hull Kingston Rovers were descending on the Stoop again, but after that 90 point thriller on the last day of the 2012 season, the possibility was strong that from such grime would spring forth a cracker. Chipper and I hoped so as we took in the late winter coldness wandering down Oxford Street in the afternoon.
The Super League had, in fact, been back for a month, but lack of money, the perennial problem, had kept us absent. It might be cheap to get in, £25 in total for the two of us, but with the train fare and all the bits and pieces that go with it, I have to pick and choose.
It may seem odd to therefore pick a game live on tv. But, I can say with hand on heart, it never has been a consideration ever. If I've had the spare time, the inclination, and the money, I'll go. If I haven't, I won't. Whether or not it's televised is irrelevant. Just a bonus if something's on I can't get to, no more, no less.
A day - or at least a night - out at the Broncos with Chipper is a world apart from football. Regardless of the result, it's just a damn good time out. Everyone, supporters and players, seem to have the right attitude of wanting to win, going all-out to, but it not being life and death. No sobbing to the media about the ref. You win, you lose, you play.
Anyway, hand stains aside, the Broncos had started the season completely inverse to the end of the last one. When they'd last played the Robins they'd ended up winning 4 out of their last 5. 2013 had overseen 4 out of 5 defeats. All that optimism Tony Rea had built up had dissipated. Again.
Things weren't quite as bad as they seemed though. 3 of the defeats were to teams expected to be well up into the title mix. The other was to a side being thrown money at it. The only side they were expected to compete for positions with, Salford, they'd hammered last week. They'd also given Wigan a bit of a scare up at the DW Stadium too in the first half. The Broncos weren't quite as bad as it looked.
The train fare and paying for tickets had almost cleaned me out but thankfully the chippy by Twickenham station gave huge portions at knock-down prices, so Chipper was fed and watered regally. Providing the Queen likes chip butties and a can of 7Up. Wandering to the ground, it was evident that a few Hull KR lads had spent the day drinking in London. Loud and incoherent. Or perhaps it was Eddie & Stevo.
We get to our seats, and soon after kick-off the Hull KR drunks turn up. But they've made a serious error. They've had that one or two too many, and crossed from loud and drunk to aggressive and abusive. They don't realise it. But the stewards do. I'd seen these lads in action last year when a few gobby Salford fans were put in their place. Sod the rugby, this is going to be some spectacle.
Pop, pop, pop. The response from the stewards is as impressive as it is quick. The drunk is staggered, not by the alcohol, not even by the speed and strength of the clips to him, but the shock of a steward actually doing their job and not taking any nonsense. His mates immediately become placatory, holding hands up, sitting down, nodding as the stewards tell them what's expected of them. In pink. Chortle.
It's a whole lot better than what's happening on the field. By half time Broncos are being thrashed 6-30. High kicks were being allowed to bounce and be pounced upon. Michael Witt, having temporarily got his side back into the game at one point, in the next minute throws to ball straight to a Robins player for a giveaway try. London are a shambles, knocking on and being forced into touch regularly, a pale imitation of the side that ended 2012 so brightly, or even of last week.
As sure as night follows day, under the darkened Twickenham skies, the Broncos storm back into it. They force a couple of goal line drop-outs, gain a penalty, and Kieran Dixon, the Broncos one player that would get into any other Super League side, darts into the corner. Suddenly the Stoop is alive again.
Just as suddenly, the errors aren't coming from the Broncos but from everyone else. Big error by the Rovers full back, dropping the ball like that. Chris Bailey grabs it but is held up crashing over the try-line. It goes to the video ref who inevitably will give no try. Unbelievably, a try is given. The Hull KR fans around us are rightly angry. There was no way Bailey scored. Except he has now. 18-30. Game on.
We do get something out of the evening though. That brief moment, when from total shite came hope, maybe even belief, that another remarkable turnaround was on. The adrenaline that coursed through the veins at the time was intoxicating. And, of course, stewards dressed in pink punching a drunk. Unrivalled entertainment.
As we made our way home, mingling totally unfettered with the Hull KR supporters, the night, and London, was their oyster. Despite the defeat, despite the lack of money, somehow Chipper and I had smiles on our faces courtesy of London Broncos. Sometimes, it seems anything is possible. And if Simon Cowell ever stops being a c***, then anything is.
But he won't. The c****.
London Broncos 22, Hull Kingston Rovers 42
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