Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

31 August 2004

We beat Wigan Athletic! Yay! And our reward is a prestigious home draw versus the well liked and better known Athletic, Charlton. So what is it about the Addicks that draws this admiration? They are, after all, only southerners - London southerners at that - but people like this friendly, family club. Mr Diary even went so far as to say that Charlton represent the "one good apple" or, I suppose, the exception to prove the rule of the greedy, overbearing, megalomaniac prerequisites of Plasticship membership.

I agree with these cordial sentiments. Charlton fans are a convivial and hospitable bunch. My last visit to the Valley saw us defeated 4-0, and not just defeated; we were soundly and roundly beaten, the scoreline flattered us sort of thing, a league apart. You get the idea.

It was the kind of performance that would have home crowds all over the country purring with delight and singing songs that rhyme with 'poor hit' and 'poor not merry hood'. I've joined in with many a laugh at the expense of inferior sides at the back of the Pontoon - I mean you would, wouldn't you, and so would they; or perhaps not.

As I saw Town given a floodlit lesson, for 'twas a night match, I had a nagging doubt. Something was missing. Although we were being resoundingly and soundly beaten - nay, thrashed - we weren't being humiliated. Our players and fans were being treated with respect by their players and fans, the home crowd only encouraging their own team, and Bradley Allen, a former player, got as good a reception as any of their own players on the night. I think, though memory may be clouded here, they even applauded us, the Town fans, for going all that way even though the chances were we were going to be stuffed (we were Christmas dinnered), and it wasn't patronising.

This was most annoying. How dare they? How dare they be nice and gracious in victory? Trying to worm their way into our affections. Come on - what's the con? Are they going to try and sell us something? Make us Grimsby lot like them and adopt them as our Prem team? Buy their shirts? Well, you don't fool me - we'll see you outside when you get all aggressive and threatening like proper football gloaters should.

"You're 'avin' a fackin' larf!" Ah, there we are: big, aggressive southern types about to tell us what they think about our paltry little team, and all hanging about in our car park, hundreds of them, all very angry, all very shouty. And we've got to get our car out of there. Gulp.

Upon arriving in Greenwich earlier that evening we had thought ourselves very lucky to find a big retail park, with a big, almost empty car park, not five minutes' walk from the ground. "Lovely," we said and in we went. When we returned it was full of cars - Charlton supporters' cars. All very agitated and the police just arriving. "Oh shit," we said and went in.

Silly ideas run through your head, cover up colours that we're not wearing so we all look a little silly, subconsciously holding our jackets and coats up to our necks. A split-second idea to practise a southern accent; abandon the car and run for the train station; try to look confident, strut a bit, don't show them your fear, but they really do look angry, ready for a fight and more police arriving. We enter the car park, trying to stay as near to the police as we can while still moving towards the car.

Now we see why everyone's so angry; now we see the focus of the aggression. Two Transit vans with half a dozen blokes being shouted down by the "fackin' larf!" brigade. These blokes were clampers, and all the cars in this car park were clamped. There were probably hundreds of cars - it was a big car park - hundreds of owners and none bothered about us. Huge sighs of relief, we're OK, nothing's going to happen. Except, of course, we've been clamped.

"50 quid!" we learn is the price for release. Tempers are flaring now; actually, they'd already flared, now they were burning, burning brightly and threatening to burn out of control. Yet more police arrived, including a riot van, and the loudhailer from the lady in charge pleaded for calm. It didn't look like she was going to get it. And then some of the Charlton fans heard our accents: "You're from Grimsby!" It wasn't a question.

This is why Charlton are liked; this is why they are the exception to prove the elitist rule. They heard and recognised us; did they laugh, fight, spit or abuse us in any way? No. The "fackin' larf!" brigade became the "you poor fackers!" support group. "You poor fackers, all this way, lose 4-0, then all the way 'ome again. You poor fackers!" When it became obvious we weren't going to get away without paying, people began to do so, and then there was a rush to pay: people wanted to get home and it was going to take hours to clear everyone out. Our new friends made sure we were front of the queue, as "these poor fackers've got to drive all the way back to Grimsby". People obliged, letting us through first; we paid, to the accompaniment of lots of "poor fackers" and "lose 4-0 then this" commiserations.

As we drove away we almost felt guilty about the fact that we were staying in the big smoke for the night (we actually stayed about four nights in the end), but we were so impressed with the amiability and benevolence of these London types that we decided that self-reproach would cheapen their act of generosity. Which is probably why Charlton Athletic and their fans are more fondly looked upon than Grimsby Town and their fans.