Right on cue, the dark clouds started to gather as the final
stretch of the journey, the M4 reared its ugly head; a bleak tarmacked expanse
running to the west, offering road signs, displaying both familiar
looking words, and below them, others that seemed desperately short of
vowels. With the city on high alert for such an explosive clash, and so as to
minimise any potential flashpoints, Leeds supporters were required to collect
their tickets by exchanging vouchers from a pre-ordained, Cardiff West Services… I’m
not sure how publicly advertising online a pre-match rendezvous point for all
Leeds fans serves to outfox highly organised bands of troublemakers – maybe they
can’t drive?
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| Low profile Leeds fans at Cardiff West Services |
Fittingly, for the occasion, for the upcoming St. George’s
Day and quite handily as a metaphor for this report, one coach load of
supporters had turned up en masse dressed as Crusaders; adorned in a
brilliantly uniformed manner, the testosterone fuelled gathering of men, pleasingly complemented by a number of wenches dotted about the contingent. Pre-trip
advice for Cardiff games is usually to go travel incognito, to leave your
colours at home, arriving in the Welsh capital in armour and a St. George’s
cross emblazoned across the chest, a rather defiant “F*ck you!” to commonly perceived
logic.
With vouchers exchanged for match tickets, that were
literally given out from the back of a van, it was onwards to the stadium…this
is it – heads down, voices down, low profile everybody, ok?
 |
| Fortress Cardiff City Stadium |
Well, actually no! The whole Cardiff City experience was
actually overwhelmingly civilized – surprisingly so, disconcertingly so,
perhaps maybe, even a little depressingly so. On the short walk from the car
park to the stadium, I looked nervously for the first signs of adolescents in
baseball caps, Stone Island jumpers and scarfs wrapped around their faces, and
nothing…well, maybe later.
 |
| Really? |
But later never came; sat outside KFC was a skinhead, but he
sported an immaculate shirt and jumper combo and was talking to his friend
about super annuities and his reluctance to relocate his children during their
schooling. Moments earlier when ordering my food, I’d been reminded of the
wonders of the Welsh accent – an endearing and sexy string to any lady’s
bow (although it does still make men sound like idiots), and this area of Wales
had brought us Joanna Page and Alex Jones too. Suddenly my beliefs were
starting to crumble. On the walk to the away end, we passed a banner proclaiming
Cardiff City to be the ‘Football League family club of the year’ – alright,
steady on!
 |
| Geordie Shore comes to South Wales |
Then it happened again; this time, the stewards! On walking
through the turnstiles at Cardiff we were actually greeted by a steward who
welcomed us and unprompted, directed
us to the bar! It was like being affronted by a Redcoat on temazepam, but with a hi-vis jacket – Bates, take note! At the bar, the mood was reassuringly ‘final away trip/celebratory’ mode, the
Crusaders joined by an astonishing array other fancy dress followers. Batman,
death row inmates, penguins, Oompa Loompas all represented, though costume of
the day would have to go to Saddam Hussein; the most ridiculously random? Howard
from the Halifax, take a bow son!
 |
| Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be... |
Like Blackpool before it, the game was almost incidental;
albeit the ‘last hurrah’ vibe rather more responsible for high spirits than
alcohol. From the teams’ entrance until the half-time whistle, the Leeds
support was relentless. In contrast, from the Cardiff end, nothing! Bar a
half-hearted ‘We all hate Leeds Scum’ pre-kick off, there was barely a whisper,
just the odd punctuated incidences of internationally recognised hand gestures in retaliation to the taunts… and there were plenty. “Your mum’s a sheep, your
dad’s a sheep” was pick of the insults, but none fostered a response.
Disappointed that the Cardiff fans weren’t in the mood to
play, the Leeds support entertained themselves; “We’ll sing on our own…” and “Sit
down, like the Cardiff fans” a couple of choice cuts. A stray shoe also found
itself in the Leeds end from where it was launched several times, before exiting
the stand – cue chants of “Sit down, if you’ve got both shoes!” A couple of
inflatable rings were also used as makeshift Frisbees, one throw nestling
perfectly over a bald fella’s head – GET THAT MAN A GOLDFISH!!
 |
| A disturbingly civilised venue |
On the pitch, Leeds competed well, but suffered another blow;
Bromby snapping his patella, and there he was again, Paul Connolly. I’m
becoming genuinely unnerved by Connolly’s continued presence, it’s as if he
haunts our every moment. I dare not mention his name three times in case he’s
like Candyman – I’ve even taken to checking under my bed for him every night,
the bogeyman reincarnate!
 |
| We used to despair about Kasper's star jumps... |
Talking of limited footballers, another ill-timed Lonergan
intervention quickly followed, allowing Joe Mason to convert Peter Whittingham’s
long pass – behind again. The defensive part of our ‘spine’ are almost like
nipples on a male, they don’t serve any purpose, they’re just seemingly put
there as it looks right; in fairness, our nipples of choice today, Lees and
Bruce appeared fairly functional, leaving only Lonergan as the nubbin, the
supernumerary or accessory nipple – pointless, inexplicable, but there. Decent
saves are no good from a keeper who can’t be trusted to do the basics.
 |
| Webber and Nunez in the same picture...hard to believe we scored |
After the break Leeds continued to compete well, the ball
pleasingly stayed grounded for longer periods as Snodgrass and McCormack worked
tirelessly. Reward came when a lung busting run from Conno… nearly said it for
a third time, finished with a cross to Becchio at the far post and a deserved
equaliser. There were only two things left to ponder in the closing stages;
firstly, Danny Webber’s contribution, and whether an administrative cock-up has
resulted in his contract containing a ‘disappearance bonus’; and to wonder what
became of the Cardiff atmosphere.
At the final whistle, Warnock rightly insisted that every
Leeds player throw their shirt to the fans; the least such backing deserves.
All that was left to do then was to exit in a conga to the strains of ‘Sweet
Caroline’, head back to the car and hope for better things come August.
On, on, on…
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