13/01/20 A Grimsby Town Game in Leyton
We walk into the less than impressive Leyton Orient stadium. I express my disappointment at the seemingly almost derelict construction, the corners of which the architect didn't even bother designing so that the balconies of over-priced flats jut precariously onto the pitch. Tony reminds me that I have been spoilt with Wembley and Barcelona's football ground in the past. "You'd think if they were such dedicated fans they wouldn't mind paying for a ticket to the game," Tony comments about the various onlookers from the aforementioned flats.
It's Leyton Orient Dad, enduring the low league efforts at kicking a ball round a pitch probably serves as payment enough. But still, I understand his point - bloody Southerners.
We began the day with lunch in a nearby vegan cafe on Leyton High Street. A vegan haggis toastie was about the most Northern thing we could find - withstanding the hipster irony which I assure you was not lost on me. It was almost like being at home, almost. After we'd chosen our seats in the stadium, Tony nipped to the loo and I was left, feeling a bit lost and a bit cold but nevertheless open-minded about Town's chances. In my faux fur coat, alone on the away side until the rest of the fans piled in, Tony remarked that I gave the appearance of "A film star who'd lost her way." Not far from the truth dad. This feeling was only emphasised when, in going to get us coffee from the stadium hatch, I was informed that no type of plant milk was available. However, my working class Lincolnshire roots came flooding black as the game commenced and our team put up a good fight. That's not to say I didn't remain realistic and almost didn't bother standing up when they scored the first goal of the match, thinking frankly, "surely not." Clearly, the Leyton Orient mascot was shocked by this turn of events as well as we looked across the pitch to see a human-size plush red dragon lying on the floor in a state of despair. As it was, in the end we were robbed.
The atmosphere at a Grimsby Town game is quite difficult to capture accurately; a lot of swearing and shouting but all in good loyal Grimbarian spirit. My favourite chant being "we're from Grimsby, who the fuck are you?" Say what you like about town supporters, but if nothing else at least they can carry a tune. There's nothing like a reasonably sized show of toxic masculinity to get the crowd and the players riled up. That being said, it's not necessarily the worst place you could take your children to teach them some only slightly exclusionist but equally proud values. There is something rather heart-warming about witnessing your father figure return to his 11 year old football fanatic self, if only for the allotted 90 minutes or so. Leaving the stadium victorious at the end of the match (believe it or not, a draw is a victory of sorts for us) we both expressed our disappointment at the promises of a latte instead of a post-game pint. Nevertheless, dry-January principles must be maintained. Who needs alcohol anyway? Who needs alcohol anyway when we were drunk on Grimbarian pride.
It's Leyton Orient Dad, enduring the low league efforts at kicking a ball round a pitch probably serves as payment enough. But still, I understand his point - bloody Southerners.
We began the day with lunch in a nearby vegan cafe on Leyton High Street. A vegan haggis toastie was about the most Northern thing we could find - withstanding the hipster irony which I assure you was not lost on me. It was almost like being at home, almost. After we'd chosen our seats in the stadium, Tony nipped to the loo and I was left, feeling a bit lost and a bit cold but nevertheless open-minded about Town's chances. In my faux fur coat, alone on the away side until the rest of the fans piled in, Tony remarked that I gave the appearance of "A film star who'd lost her way." Not far from the truth dad. This feeling was only emphasised when, in going to get us coffee from the stadium hatch, I was informed that no type of plant milk was available. However, my working class Lincolnshire roots came flooding black as the game commenced and our team put up a good fight. That's not to say I didn't remain realistic and almost didn't bother standing up when they scored the first goal of the match, thinking frankly, "surely not." Clearly, the Leyton Orient mascot was shocked by this turn of events as well as we looked across the pitch to see a human-size plush red dragon lying on the floor in a state of despair. As it was, in the end we were robbed.
The atmosphere at a Grimsby Town game is quite difficult to capture accurately; a lot of swearing and shouting but all in good loyal Grimbarian spirit. My favourite chant being "we're from Grimsby, who the fuck are you?" Say what you like about town supporters, but if nothing else at least they can carry a tune. There's nothing like a reasonably sized show of toxic masculinity to get the crowd and the players riled up. That being said, it's not necessarily the worst place you could take your children to teach them some only slightly exclusionist but equally proud values. There is something rather heart-warming about witnessing your father figure return to his 11 year old football fanatic self, if only for the allotted 90 minutes or so. Leaving the stadium victorious at the end of the match (believe it or not, a draw is a victory of sorts for us) we both expressed our disappointment at the promises of a latte instead of a post-game pint. Nevertheless, dry-January principles must be maintained. Who needs alcohol anyway? Who needs alcohol anyway when we were drunk on Grimbarian pride.
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