As I set out for Wembley at 5:30am on Sunday I resolved to fully absorb the entire experience. Previous trips, have been something of a blur, each one ultimately submerged in the deepest despondency. With its planned demolition, this would most likely be my very last pilgrimage to the hallowed Twin Towers, and without being morbid, at 53, my beloved team might not provide me with another excuse.

My "Executive Coach" was the first disappointment of the day. The video experience which was promised to "while the hours away" turned out to be two non-functioning 14inch TV sets, and even the radio "didnt seem to be working". The only spare seat was beside a father taking his wide-eyed 8 and 6 year old lads for their first trip to the Shrine. Precocious little buggers, talked non-stop, but canny lads really.

My required visit to the "executive netty" was a gut rather than bowel wrenching experience, as someone had already pewked in and around the hand-basin - yes, at 6:45am!

The weather deteriorated by the minute, and by Wetherby the sky was leaden, the clouds skudding over the tree tops, low and menacing. Trowell Services for a pee-stopnext: steady drizzle by now. The long, winding queue for bacon sandwiches was remarkably reminiscent of the catering services at SJP, but went down a greasy treat. First positive of the day: good omen?

As we set off again through the deepest gloom, the distant sky ahead was incredibly bright. We drove on and on, but the bright sky ahead seemed strangely illusive - not unlike the end of a rainbow, ever further ahead. Finally, around Watford Gap, in an instant we emerged into the bright sunshine, the sky behind now black as night. Surely, this must be an omen?

I dozed awhile, as the young uns in front got bored with yapping, until a sharp stop by the driver stirred me to the sight of the Twin Towers on the horizon of a sprawling urban wasteland; bathed in the brightest sunshine. It looked..... well, famous: a crumbling symbol of a bygone age of Imperial splendour.

We all leapt from our Executive Coach (hhmmm); a herd of zebras into the Spring sunshine. Christ, it was bloody freezing. Strong, gusty chill wind. Of course, the zebras didnt even notice: they were at Wemberlee, again: full of guarded optimism, full of laughs and high spirits: soon to be full of Fosters XXXX.

Its only 12:00, so after getting back onto the bus to don something warmer (!), I set off to find the bbs-ers for a couple of Buds. Got directions from a pleasant, canny looking WPC, and after a brisk walk piled past the bouncers and into the Old Post Office. Wall of heat and .... eh, blue shirts? Loud music; Cockneys singing "Blue is the colour, Chelsea is the team, were all together, and winning is our game". Bloody hell, this cant be right, what is Screacher playing at? Quick look around; sh*t, getting some funny glares, bit hostile in here, Im off. Try next door; much the same. Finally find a zebra pub, and stand outside having couple of Buds. Enjoy the crack, and the baiting of the Chewsee fans outside the pub opposite, all watched attentively by the good-natured, amused, local constabulary.

1:30pm, getting nervous now, off to the Stadium. Go the long way around, as you MUST approach the stadium from Wembley Way, its traditional. It never ceases to amaze me how WW is always 99% B&W: the atmosphere absolutely brilliant. Carnival time, Geordie-style. But, how do the opposition fans get to the stadium? Do they have a secret entrance, a tunnel perhaps?

Get to my seat; champion, good view - only 20% of the field obscured by a pillar this time. Stadium seems slow to fill up this year, especially the Blue end. Atmosphere also a little slow to build up, but finally gets going, and when the teams emerge the Toon Army is in full cry; deafening. This is our year: I can feel it.

Kick off. We seem a little nervous, not unnatural. Defensive marking is a bit slack, they almost get through a couple of times, and then oh no, theyve scored; no its offside. Jeez, cant stand this!

We get things together and start to push them backwards, tackles flying in. Chewsee break forward, seems innocuous but all of a sudden the ball loops over Given; momentary silence; I dont believe it, its in the bloody net, the buggers have scored; where was the defence? Please, please, not again.

The Toon Army is deflated for a couple of minutes, then realise to a man that theyre here to do a job - this is duty, for crying out loud. Toon Army and Toon gradually get going again. AS header, Nobby blasts one over, should have done better. KD causing them problems. Bliddy Referee is playing like Wor Lass (Geordie figure of speech!). DFs limping - bad omen? Maybe not, he wasnt playing that well. Domi on. Were doing OK; half time.

For Toon Sufferers the first 25 minutes or so of the second half was sheer poetry, every one of the team was superb: effort, effort, and more effort: total, absolute commitment: just this once, they wanted it as much as the Toon Army. Truly magic moments: the team and its fans, united in purpose: unforgettable experience.

Chelsea were rocking, hanging on by a thread; Dyer was running like a hare, here there and everywhere; Shearer was tormenting the bald, Froggy whimp. For the umpteenth time AS, skins Le Beouf wide on the right and knocks a peach of a centre in, and The General thumps a glorious header into the net. Sweet, unbridled joy: total mayhem. Blokes hugging strangers - and Geordies, ye knaa! As the mayhem subsides, the big bloke next to me grabs me and gives me a big hug "Ive waited so long for that" he says. I know, I know. Everyone knows.

The turning point; were on top, Chewsee look tired and deflated, this is our day. However, weve barely found our seats, and our spectacles again, when KD is lying still on the pitch and the team hesitates, expecting the game to be stopped. Ive watched this on video, and for the life of me I cant see the hesitation, but I just know it happened, and in my mind was contributory to Chewsees stunning winner.

Agony of agonies. Weve lost, and yet we played so well. Why us, why on earth us? Alan Shearers first off the field - he looks distraught. So strong, so much a Geordie; hell feel it more than the rest. It must be so very, very difficult for him.

Hang back to applaud Chewsee off the field, and troop back to the bu; so hugely disappointed yet again, but so proud of how wed played.

We wend our way back up north, crawling initially in heavy traffic. The two young uns start fighting, so Dad sits beside the elder, and puts the bairn beside me. He curls up in his seat, puts his head on my lap and falls fast asleep. His first exposure to the agony and ecstasy; so young, so cruelly disappointed. Another foot soldier is initiated.

What else to say? So many positives, and yet ultimately so cruel, so disappointing. I can live with it - yet again I really was so very proud to be a Geordie, and for the first time in a quite a while Im comforted by the fact that we seem to be truly "united" again. Despite the result, that was a nice feeling.

-- Anonymous, April 11, 2000

Answers

Excellent read clarky, well written - even brought a tear to my eye!

-- Anonymous, April 11, 2000

Great posting Clarky! (:o)

-- Anonymous, April 12, 2000

Crackin stuff clarky. We'll win something soon, we wlll.
Imagine that eh!.

-- Anonymous, April 12, 2000