Wo-ooah, I’m an Alien…

With my only Swindon supporting friend jettisoned in Solihull, I made the lonely journey to the Valley alone to watch the second leg of the League One Playoff semi-final between Swindon and Charlton. With Swindon holding a narrow 2-1 lead from the first leg it was all to play for.

Being a disorganised twat I left it so late my only option was to purchase on the gate. The imbecile behind the counter told me North Lower (the stronghold of the stalwart Charlton fan) was the only space left – this despite there being swathes of space in both the other stands throughout the game. Wanker.

So with gritted teeth and a check on my emotions I took my seat amongst the South East London Ultras, replete with their bare chests and dodgy tattoos vaguely resembling the Charlton badge.

It was not an immensely enjoyable experience initially. I abhor football fans who scream obscenities throughout matches, even more so when they are about the team and players you support. And especially not when they are a foot from your ear in the seat next to you.

It all looked good at first, two minutes into the game I had a spare seat beside me and was relaxing into my personal space (I am not a small man and two seats was just about right). Then he arrived. ‘Superfan’. He had no top on, one of those ridiculous big red hands over one of his own, a hooter, and an extremely loud voice. Suffice to say, for 120 minutes he was my most hated man in the world, and I now have a perforated eardrum.

It was difficult as an alien among Ultras. When they leapt and screamed at a missed chance I thanked the Lord and exhaled. When Swindon went close I let out a strangled yelp and put my head in my hands, they booed and or cheered. After a while I established a neutral shout of ‘fuuuuuuck’ got me through whatever happened.

Swindon started well and dominated only to be hit by a sucker punch against the run of play, and a ridiculous own goal at that. Another just before half time and Danny Wilson’s red and white army were right up against it.

But of course I couldn’t display any signs of concern, Superfan and probably a thousand others would have mauled me. My hands thrust themselves deeper into my pockets when Swindon went close, and when they reached my head I feigned relief. For Charlton’s goals, head in hands and stony silence mixed with muttered expletive was lost amidst the delirium.

Swindon started the second half well but were again stopped in their tracks, this time for a fully deserved Gordon Greer red card. I think my shout of  ‘you fucking twat’ was seen as sympathy for the stricken Charlton player. Well I am alive now I suppose.

Danny Ward’s goal was met with clenched fists (in pockets of course) and a look to the heavens. And there was so much shouting when Charlton were reduced to 10 after Charlie Austin was hauled down it drowned out my conflicting emotions.

So to extra time – I had been through the mill with these guys now, and felt a strange sense if guilt. I was like a peeping  Tom, a pervert, an emotional voyeur – pretending to share in their sorrow and joy yet all the while secretly opposing them. I felt bad. And worried that I would be rumbled by a wholly inappropriate reaction. When Swindon went close and I almost genuflected (hands on head of course) I thought it was all over, but as I said, I am alive now…

I was dreading penalties but I found myself an isolated seat I could stand on and put myself through the last throes of the emotional gamut alone. And when Darby netted the decisive penalty my celebration was to run off into the stands and home, only pausing to glimpse the Swindon mob.

The playoffs are incredible – the Americans call them our best kept secret. And this was the playoffs at their best, end to end, incident and action packed, dramatic and compelling. And…

E I E I O, UP THE FOOTBALL LEAGUE WE GO!!

Come on Swindon. We’re going to fucking Wembley. And this time I can watch it with my own fans.