It started as a joke a few weeks ago before the 2006 FA Cup Final. “What about camping in Cardiff?” we said, and the idea soon gained momentum, especially with the lack of hotel beds in the city centre. We found a campsite just outside Cardiff, so that was booked promptly.
A week before the game on a Friday night, my brother rings me in the pub all excited, proclaiming, “Nick, I’ve just had a trial run; 18 minutes to put the tent up.”
“You’d better get it under 15, bruv,” I said as I peed on his bonfire.
Tuesday before the game was banner making night. A white sheet from the Mrs, printed (and cut out) stencils, and various spray paints. Thirty minutes later the banner was born and hung out on the line to dry.
Thursday and Friday we loaded up the car. You’d think we were going away for a month with the amount of stuff we had: beer, bedding, BBQ gear, and more beer.
Cardiff, here we come
Saturday morning comes and the alarm wakes me at 6.15 am, but I was already awake through the rumbling of my inners due to a chicken kebab and several pints of bitter the evening before. I awake my son, who looks at me through one eye with the excitement of a man on death row. I whip his duvet and pillow off him and off we go downstairs to have a quick bite, even though my body is saying “nil by mouth” at this unearthly hour. Off we go to pick up my brother for the long journey south.
7.30 am comes and my brother cracks open his first can of many bitters that weekend. He wouldn’t drink before 7.30 am; that was his policy. What a man of his word. We hit the M6 south and it bounces down with rain. “Good camping weather,” my brother sarcastically declares. I won’t tell you my reply.
We head towards the M6 Toll road. Before I go on, I am sure my brother has some sort of obsession with toll roads and he insists we take it. He is my big brother, after all.
“I am sure it goes past the M5 junction, which is not what we really want,” I pipe up.
“We’ll be okay, little bruv,” was his reply.
Twenty minutes later the map is out and we are planning a diversion back to the M5. £3.50 lighter and 20 minutes of Cardiff beer-drinking time lighter, we find a better route than the one suggested earlier.
Feeling a little “tyred”
Nothing more eventful happens until we head into Wales over the Toll Bridge and onto the M4. Two miles from our junction and the traffic is very slow, consisting mainly of West Ham fans (we had gone past the suggested Liverpool junction). Some idiot behind me in a Transit is pointing towards my car. We exchange obscenities, with our Liverpool scarves flapping out the car windows in the morning air.
He continues to frantically point towards the back of the car, so I pull over a lane and he pulls alongside, again pointing towards my back wheel.
“Something is amiss, lads,” I tell the occupants of the car and I pull onto the hard shoulder. I find my back tyre as flat as Holland.
I open the boot for the spare tyre and we have to offload the month’s supplies (tent, duvet, pillows, beer, etc.) to reach the said tyre. Changing the tyre took about 10 minutes, but about 50 “cockneys” went past beeping their horns and giving it large at our car.
Slightly embarrassed, we get going again. We come off the motorway and follow the internet directions to the campsite, which were just about the worst directions on this planet. We eventually, via Penarth seafront (a poor man’s Rhyl), get to the campsite. It cost £6 each and we headed onto the pitch at the top of the hill, which nearly burnt my engine out getting up there. Strong winds, drizzly rain, and a few cans later, the tent was secure.
Red invasion of Cardiff
Julie, the campsite owner, runs us into Cardiff in a minibus and drops us a short distance from the stadium. Ten minutes later we are near the City Arms and onto The Old Orleans bar for our first draught beers. There are Liverpool fans absolutely everywhere.
Beers aplenty were downed in several bars (I can’t remember some of the names). Gary McAllister’s bald head was rubbed by my son, and we marched round to the West Ham “neutral” side to enter the ground. We made a pact not to hide our colours, so, in for a penny, we are in the neutral end. Hardly neutral; West Ham fans are everywhere and us four probably just doubled the red support on that side.
We joined in with every song the massed Liverpool supporters were singing at the other end, albeit with a few funny looks from the Hammers. West Ham go 2-0 up and all you can hear is “Bubbles.” My thoughts turn to what a nightmare day this is turning out to be.
Djibril Cisse scores to bring us back into the game and we go mad. “We can only get beaten up once,” we laughed. Half-time comes and we seek out more beer, but nowhere is selling any. Two of us go to the toilet and leave the other two to hold the red fort. We come out and are informed by my son that a steward has just asked if we want to go in the Liverpool end. He escorts us round to the other end of the Millennium Stadium and we are told to stand in the aisle and watch from there.
This is more like it. 2-2, Steven Gerrard; only one winner now.
Oh no, they’ve “tagged” another. 3-2 and the clock is ticking towards the final whistle. And then, just when the last bit of hope was disappearing, Stevie G launches his one-in-a-million thunderbolt. Yes, it hits the back of the net and you hug anyone you can get your hands on.
Extra time comes and goes (and was not uneventful) and on to penalties. We score, they miss, and could this finally be our day? It is, as Pepe Reina makes up for a couple of earlier sticky moments and saves Anton Ferdinand’s penalty. We go mental. The FA Cup is won again.
More beers were downed in the centre after the game in celebration with fellow Reds. We have a good chat with a few West Ham fans, who are, not surprisingly, downbeat to say the least.
Jan Molby walks past and the conversation goes something like this:
Big Jan: “Number 7, lads.”
Me: “How many did you win, Jan?”
Jan: “Three… 86, 89, and 92.”
Me: “You didn’t play in 92.”
Jan: “Yes I did, and Man of the Match,” he says, laughing through gritted teeth.
Me: “What did you think of Stevie G today?”
Jan: “Not as good as me in 86,” and he walks off laughing loudly (after signing my shirt).
John Aldridge walks past next and nearly gets mobbed; he also signs my shirt. A last few pictures get taken at the City Arms and it is back to our campsite for a shandy or two as we catch the return minibus.
Back at the campsite
The pub on the campsite was great and, first things first, up go the flags. More Reds filter back and many a song was sung. Things got a bit blurry now and we headed back to the tent for a can before bed. Our heads hit the pillows and in an instant my lad is sick everywhere in the tent. Fifteen minutes of clearing up and finally we are off to the land of nod.
Morning awakes with the sweltering sun over the campsite and, after dodging wet carrots and spuds in the tent, it’s shower time. I head down the hill and, as soon as I had foamed up, the water went off. Luckily, two minutes later it came back on, but it was absolutely freezing. It cured any hangover I may have been nursing. It was similar to marine training, not that I’ve ever been through marine training. The temperature soon rose along with my spirits.
My brother cracks open a can of bitter, which wasn’t surprising, and starts the BBQ. A couple of bacon and sausage sandwiches later and I call home to the Mrs to tell her about the “sick incident.”
“I told you to look after him!”
“I did. It was the Cup Final, so anything goes.”
It was an uneventful journey home, really, and my brother had four cans of bitter. A visit to Homebase was needed when close to home to get some new pillows (£20 for four, the robbing bar stewards). Finally home, we empty the car and slip in the video of the match with a contented smile on my now weary face.
