The Clubhouse
Couldn't get tickets.
Me and Ken Jnr decided to meet IN Sheffield and watch the match there rather than stay in Warwickshire and Leeds.
Atmosphere charged. A mixture of excitement, apprehension, uncertainty and trepidation. The hum almost visible as the place fills up and people down their first couple of pints and seek the most suitable vantage point to view one of the screens without an obstruction. Some people had reserved tables and had seats saved, strategically near the array of screens of their choice.
The noise levels increase as the Blades anthems kick in and the throng of the growing mass coagulates into a writhing leviathan, seething with energy focused on the first steel city derby in more than 6 years.
The whistle goes and the volume cranks up to 11 as the Blades tear into Carlos's crew from the off, in a typical Wilder full frontal. The ball is worked to the inside left channel where Brooks picks up and glides past a couple of desperate pork scratchings only to be brought down on the edge of the area as he threatens to sythe through like a hot knife through lard.
Shouts of "Fucking dirty piggy Basteds" ring out and roars of appreciation for the young Welsh Wizard join in the cacophony.
The ref gets his can of squirty cream out to denote the pig free zone from the orb of delight. Westwood arranges a shield of spare ribs and points his rectum at the east bank of pork.
Coutts and Brooks stand over the ball and wait for the referee to oscillate his pea.
The place goes quiet.
The shrill of the whistle announces the permission to carry on and a second or two later Coutts makes the decoy run to Brooks's feigned tap forward.
Instead, young David is winding up the chord of his sling shot and back heels the ball into the path of the Bru-hammer.
A collective gasp.
A split second of anticipation.
Our Scottish hero takes a stride that will indelibly write his name into steel city folklore and twats one past a stranded Westwood into the bottom corner
... and the fucking place erupts.
Scenes.
Pandemonium.
Tables overturned.
Bedlam.
Fountains of cheap larger, ale, cider and babycham cascade in torrents over the throng of delerious Blades jumping and hugging and screaming at the tops of their voices. The ceiling is dripping with lager and Scandinavian poofta cider as rivers of glass and the remnants of people's drink spread all over the floor. Revellers come back to their senses and seek their pals and vantage points to resume watching the game.
... and that's just for starters.
