In all my travels, I have never found myself in a settlement
as unappealingly glum as Swindon. It could not possibly be as bad as everyone
says, I naively thought. The town of which I have heard universally bad things,
alas, lives up to its ugly reputation.
The County Ground itself, home of the Robins (the third club
I have recently visited with the same nickname), is a solidly respectable
structure, yet on its doorstep lies endless rows of featureless suburban
terracing. Even from the initial sight of the central train station - which
appears to have taken a wrong turn from its rightful home in 1950s Yugoslavia - any travelling supporter can experience first-hand how privileged they are to
originate from anywhere other than here. It is this characterless corner of
Wiltshire to which successive governments, and any right-minded civilian, have
averted their gaze and left it to ruin.
Believe it or not, Premier League football once graced this
dire dwelling and even, no matter how improbably, entertained the indulgent
finesse of Glenn Hoddle as player-manager. A 2-2 scoreline with champions
Manchester United was one of the few highlights in a season where the team
conceded 100 goals and immediately descended back to the lower reaches.
Despite far more modest fare in recent times, the club is
currently riding a crest towards the upper tiers. Mark Cooper’s squad entered
this final contest of the regular season with a play-off spot already secured.
Visitors Leyton Orient, on the other hand, had their survival in League One at
stake, with only a win enough to keep them up depending on results elsewhere.
As it was, Swindon started with a weakened team ahead of
their crucial clash with Sheffield United and got what they deserved for their
complacency. After endless attempts at the fruitless endeavour of passing
across their back line, the home side were caught out on numerous occasions by
elementary forward pressing. The Orient strikers didn’t need to be Alan Turing
to break this goal kick code, and so it proved when possession was lost and the
onrushing forward was brought down by ‘keeper Tyrell Belford.
Once the obvious penalty
was given and guilty culprit rightfully dismissed, a quick substitution
replaced one Belford for another. Cameron spared his brother’s blushes by
saving the ensuing spot kick from Lloyd James, leaving the Londoners to rue
their wastefulness. Spurred on by their predicament, the visitors continued to
dominate and missed a flurry of ribbon-tied opportunities until Dean Cox
eventually struck from a rare piece of fluent football.
This warning wound remained untreated by the higher-placed
team, who continued to fanny about with the ball in their most vulnerable area
of the pitch. Veteran defender Sam Ricketts, to whom the words ‘ace dribbler’
have never been ascribed, found the ball perilously at his feet more often than
anyone else. In fairness, the Bolton loanee has been one of Town’s star
performers this season but any tactical nouse in how he is deployed appears
non-existent.
After the break, more pseudo-Barca’ trampling created
unnecessary pressure, ultimately leading to the away side’s second. Chris
Dagnall, who had continually danced across the red-jersey lines but delivered
little of substance, suddenly found a spark of quality long enough to bury the
ball in the netting and double the advantage.
Long before then, the gloating of the disappointed Swindon
support had begun towards their doomed opponents. In football grounds across
the globe you have to put up with a certain level of idiocy from fellow fans;
sometimes they genuinely can’t help it. But, here I was, surrounded by
needlessly smug fools who felt the need to incessantly taunt the away section
with celebrations of their likely demise, in spite of the situation on the
field.
Although some punters will argue that this was merely traditional
‘banter’, the obvious note of childish, petulant relish was obvious to my neutral
sensibilities. Malice and ignorance serve to reflect whatever bad grace inflicts
this fan base. If it was local rivals Oxford United I would understand; how cash-strapped
Orient deserve such humiliation in these parts is anyone’s guess.
 |
| Glenn Hoddle: his haircut never matches its surroundings. |
By some unfortunate mistake, I had found myself in the
supposed ultras section of the stadium for the first time. I did have one close
call before then in Newport, where overhearing the words “When does the drummer
get here?” mercifully saved me from a potentially migraine-inducing experience.
Indeed, a quick twenty yard glide across a terrace can usually make a
surprising difference.
It is a requirement
for everyone to sit for the duration of the match, announced the tannoy system
prior to kick off at the County Ground. Well,
not a single person in the Town End lowered themselves to their plastic chairs
in the entire ninety minutes. Is there a point, therefore, in maintaining
seating behind the goal where I was situated? Without safe terracing a certain
casual joy is lost within that abstract notion which corporate-types tend to
label ‘the matchday experience’. This all-seater venue remains a token relic of
the post-Hillsborough changes to top-flight sport. Now that the ground plays
host to much less enthusiastic gates, however, the system is pointless and
outdated.
Back on the pitch, ten-man Swindon brought themselves level
in the second half with goals from Anton Rodgers and Andy Williams. Two
substitutions led to their dramatic improvement, so much so that, by the
concluding stages, the cockney travellers were relieved to be going down
without a departing defeat.
By the end of this Sunday lunchtime fixture, my sympathies
were firmly rooted with the demoted club. When the time comes that Swindon once
more follow a descent in soccer’s fatefully cyclical lifespan, my sense of
justice hopes they taste retribution in the form of the familiar catcalls to
which they addressed their opposite numbers. As John Lennon once sang, instant
karma’s going to get you – even if you did once tie with Manchester United.
