A wet lettuce of a day
Defeat in dreary Dagenham puts a dampener on the season. But the Red Army is still singin' in the rain.
Allez Allez Ohhh
Within 10 minutes, it was all over.
All the pomp and ceremony and hype of Title Day zapped dead by a synchronous buzz of phones alerting the Chigwell Construction Stadium of a goal scored 230 miles away.
Paddy Madden had put Stockport County in front. The Hatters were going to be champions.
By the time the Red Army coaches were hiccuping home through the Dagenham drizzle and stretches of grey London suburbia were flashing by beyond the blurry windows, we had already spent the past hour in a state of stoic acceptance.
Stockport were worthy title winners. They held their nerve and set a pace that, in the end, proved simply too high for us to match. In the words of our illustrious chairmen - we were going to have to “do this the hard way.”
There had been genuine belief before kick-off. A crackle in the air. Groups of grinning men dancing through the Big Smoke with toy sheep strapped to their waists. Flustered staff at The Pipe Major pub warning the invading Welshmen they couldn’t drink their convenience store cans in the bursting beer garden before seeing hundreds of others doing the same and swiftly opting to turn a blind eye instead. Rowdy Reds bouncing around in the bar in the subterranean section of the SD Samuels stand.
The mood felt right. But it wouldn’t be our day.
And if we didn’t know that after 10 minutes of the game, we certainly did after 55.
Sunday managed to produce the single most painful period of sixty seconds all season as Wrexham went behind just as Stockport got a second.
Like that, the championship dream was over.
“Fuckin hell la, this has been a right wet lettuce of a day,” concluded one supporter, whose unusual turn of phrase was a surprisingly illustrative summary of the soggy, limp performance unfolding on the field in front of us.
A gung-ho attempt from Parky to turn around the scoreline with eight attacking players on the pitch backfired spectacularly as Dagenham added goals in the dying minutes. But nobody was even arsed. By that point, it was already done. The Red Army were more interested in completing the longest rendition of Allez Allez Ohhhh in living memory.
There was little reason to sing, but sing we did. Over and over and over again.
“Allez Allez Ohhhh!”
The smoke bomb smugglers - starved of any good reason to pull their pins all afternoon - decided to finally launch their fireworks onto the field, with the stewards’ delay in clearing the debris visibly pissing off Pele - ever the competitor - who wanted to get the game kicked off again.
“Allez Allez Ohhhh!”
Over in Greater Manchester, Madden was being hoisted aloft on the shoulders of fans to gloating choruses of: “Fuck you Wrexham, we’re gonna win the league!”.
But on we went.
“Allez Allez Ohhhh!”
Dagenham’s little Green Street posse - probably a group of West Ham fans who couldn’t get tickets for the City match - inaudibly taunted us for failing in our title bid, despite the fact they’d missed out on the play-offs themselves.
And we were still going.
“Allez Allez Ohhhh!”
As the Pats Coaches departed for Wales and whizzed by one another on the M1, you could make out Reds of all shapes and sizes still clapping and singing in their seats.
“Allez Allez Ohhhh!”
No towels being thrown into the ring just yet. A few more big rounds. A few more punches to throw. A few more songs to sing.
And this week, Allez Allez Ohhhh becomes Que Sera, Sera.
Wembley beckons. See you under the arch. All 20,000 of you.