Struck down with a case of the mentals, I used to like nothing better than going to watch Reading Football Club play of a Saturday. This was in their wilderness years in the late 80s, so I would spend many freezing Saturdays standing with my boss and his mates on a cold terrace at Elm Park. In fact, the entire history of the club has been spent displaying varying shades of shitness, so 'wilderness years' could describe anything from 1874-2010.
Habitually, I would take a train to Reading, have a burger on the way to the ground, watch a crappy 0-0 draw, then go and get drunk.
So.
Train. Burger King. South Bank. Shrewsbury Town. Raging gut rot.
You can tell where this is going.
Halfway through the second half, the unthinkable happens and Reading get the ball in the net. Pandemonium on the terraces, if only to get warm.
I jump up and down a bit, and suddenly realise this hasn't helped by raging guts in the slightest.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"
All over the boss. All over his mates. All over some hairy, tattooed chaps who didn't take to well to being the victims of a projectile peff. If there had been a hedge nearby, I dare say I would have been sick in that as well.
I had a Whopper Meal with large fries and a chocolate shake.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"
And so did they.
I stood on my own on the other side of the ground for two seasons.
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