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| He's Leeds and he knows he is! |
Those who market the town do little to help of course; while
more aspiring seaside towns seek to keep the stag do and hen party crowd at
bay, Blackpool positively embraces them, adverts in pub windows proclaim that
groups of lewd violently drunk, sex starved, gobshites are welcome…maybe it’s
in an effort to raise the tone? After all, when the resort’s core demographic
of youthful idiots is drawn almost exclusively from Manchester and Merseyside,
what harm can it do?
But even with its hard core apostles in toe, Blackpool has
the aura of a place dying on its arse, especially on an April weekday when the
Pleasure Beach is closed. The sea front is punctuated with vacant properties,
which in turned are flanked by tattooists and bargain clearance outlets, the
only sign of life being pairs of men, working to lure you in to play an exorbitantly
priced darts game in an effort to win something from the rows upon rows of
cheap teddies (also available around the corner for fraction of the fee
required to win one). As usual, they play an ace card; in this case a 2 foot
Smurfette – I could’ve won her too, had I been required to score 180 in 12
darts, rather than 3.
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| Blackpool's a shithole... |
Beyond that, you have Blackpool’s main attractions, its key
USPs, the centrepiece and the constituent parts of what make the ‘Golden Mile’
the envy of similarly downtrodden destinations – the tower and the
illuminations. Blackpool Tower, once a majestic feat of engineering magnificence,
these days has more the appearance of an architecturally interesting telephone
mast, while the world famous illuminations even suffer in comparison to the
Leeds Christmas lights. You can only get away with polishing a turd for so long
– no wonder the town so aggressively campaigned for the UK’s biggest Super
Casino; the place is f**ked!
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| Mid-Enoch tribute |
Still, Blackpool has pubs, and plenty of them, so those who
braved the Scum hotbed could at least get appropriately shitfaced. Fans who’d
travelled and stayed overnight had ample justification for being paralytic by
early afternoon – there was absolutely nothing else to do! For our sins, we
visited The Manchester, purely on the basis that it’s usually rowdy; it was,
clusters of barely articulate Leeds fans, arms aloft, providing spirited vocal
accompaniment as ‘Leeds United Calypso’ shimmied its way out of the speaker
system. As luck would have it the entire greatest hits album was on heavy
rotation – though let’s go a little easier with ‘Football in a Yorkshire Rose’
next time, eh? DJ! – the playlist further adorned with ‘Tom Hark’ and a Hi-NRG
dance track that provided an unconventional if perfect backing for the Enoch
song.
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| Bloomfied Road - the bit they want you to see |
To the ground, and a surprising contrast; Bloomfield Road is
a very tidy stadium from the outside, somewhat helped by a landscaping scheme
that most retail park managers would die for. Adorning the main entrance to the
North Stand is a statue of Stan Mortenson, however our interest lie around the
corner where a (far more impressive) statue of Jimmy Armfield looked outward –
one Leeds scarf later and a fitting tribute was complete.
Going back, I think I ought to qualify the remark about how
decent the stadium looks, by adding the caveat that the away end is factored
out of the equation. Yes, the East Stand is a temporary construction, but with
£60m of Premier League cash in the coffers you’d at least expect them to make
an effort. The steel sheet fronted turnstiles were a first, and the A4 signs
that read ‘Please refrain from bouncing in the stand’, more of a worry; add the Portakabin
toilets and the revolutionary ‘un-numbered seats’ layout and you have a
‘unique’ match day experience – I was even able to find some elements of London Road that compare favourably.
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| ...and the bit they didn't. |
As the game kicked-off, the atmosphere was lively; particularly
helped by some pockets of all-dayers conducting their own sing-alongs,
oblivious that a game was going on in the background. The chant de rigueur of
the early stages became ‘If Billy scores, we’re in the sea’, but although he
did slot home from an offside position early on, there was little prospect of a
moonlight swim; indeed Paynter’s premature exit signalled a chorus of ‘We’re
not going in the sea’.
The first-half itself was nothing revelatory; Blackpool
edging possession and having the better of the chances, but deprived of
Rachubka’s 3 assists, they had to settle for going in level. For their part,
Leeds threatened in bursts, one Webber shot forcing Gilks to palm the ball
around the post. McCormack also had a decent penalty shout when bundled over by
Crainey; the ref looked non-plussed and checked with the assistant who merely
looked vacant. ‘Play on’ was the verdict and a new ‘Shit Bald B**stard’ was
born on the touchline.
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| Rare Leeds attack in the first half |
The only other memorable vignette from the opening 45 minutes
was a 10 minute burst of ‘Leeds United Calypso’, punctured at the end of each
line with a resounding ‘Bates Out! – I can only imagine the frantic efforts of
Eddie Gray to drown out the chant from his commentary position amongst the
depths of the Leeds support.
After the break, again the stands provided a more compelling
spectacle than the game as four Leeds fans in quick succession engaged in
fisticuffs in the neighbouring stand; the final fella tumbling down 4 rows of
seats, as if paying homage to the legendary fan at the Manor Ground in 1990. In
fairness, the Blackpool support offered more than the Reading fans last time
out; a genuine passion invigorated ‘We all hate Leeds scum’ - they must still
be seething from that 3-1 reverse back in season 1970-71 when we last played
them.
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| The penalty shout |
Inevitably, back on the pitch, as Blackpool pushed for a
late winner, Leeds collapsed. Phillips and Ince both… well, I was gonna say
raped the back four, but that would be both distasteful, and also inaccurate,
being that term suggests a degree of resistance. It was left to Angel Martinez beat Lees and Bromby to
snatch the winner, before O’Dea kept up Warnock’s ‘average’... albeit only on red cards; moments later Clayton clattered another opponent and was swiftly withdrawn.
At least it wasn’t 5…
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