Cod Almighty | Article

by Simon Wilson

14 May 2004

Days before the final whistle blew on the Mariners' last home game of the season, I was well ahead on a decision about renewing my season ticket. Next year, I had eventually decided thanks to some persuasion from my wife, I will not be renewing my season-long rent of P55 in the Pontoon.

I can hear you all tutting. Traitor. Jumping ship as soon as the Mariners are relegated. Au contraire, dear reader. You forget I had made this decision before Town's descent into Division Three was decided. Yes, I stuttered and questioned my decision once the horrible truth was realised. Surely now, I thought, the club needs the pledge of support that is my season ticket purchase. More than ever. But that only got as far as meekly suggesting over tea: "It's a great seat: great view, near great people. It's just great. Be a shame to give it up."

It isn't because I have had enough of the defeats, the humiliations. My Saturday treks to Blundell Park, or wherever else my following takes me, are always pleasurable to some degree. At worst there is always the company of my friends. The banter. The larking around at half time. Usually the dismay as we troop out, heads slightly bowed, inspecting our shoes as we depart. Always was a shoegazer. Occasionally, it's satisfying to witness disasters. No, we would have lost against them even if we were any good. Also makes the victories all the more sweeter. And once in a while the football's quite decent as well.

But, let me stress, I am not retiring from supporting the Mariners. In fact the club may be better off by me not getting a season ticket. Let me explain.

Although I am a generous person, I loathe it when someone else uses my season ticket. Hate it. Despise it. Family commitments mean Tuesday night games are a dash too rapid from and back to Leeds. Eventually last season there were five midweek league games at home. Three of which were rearranged games. Games I had planned to go to, originally. I was even sat in the Rutland two hours before one of them was supposed to have been played. This will happen again next season. Saturday games I should have been at, would have been at. Moved. And all I get is David Burns' voice to keep my company in the kitchen (could have been dangerous this year, being so close to so many knives in such moments of anguish). This isn't very pleasant.

I've also got a little bored of being a Pontoonite. Sitting in the same seat every match, same view, as lovely as it is, for the past so many seasons. Being on the back row, yes, it's fab having that empty space behind us. Where else can you stretch your legs at half time just by hopping over your pew? But I started going to Town games as a Lower Findus boy. Same ritual, induced by my friend Tim Basham and his dad. Where are you now, Bash? Get to the game an hour early, take our positions stood just by the halfway line. Immovable. Every game. Lower Findus. Half-time Mars bar, usually bought from Louth Woollies. Until 1995. Watford at home. I tried the Main Stand. Horrible. Too quiet, crowd had probably fallen asleep. The game was awful. Flirted with the Pontoon for a couple of games. Disappeared to uni. Nostalgia saw me back in the Lower on my odd trip back. The residency in the Pontoon eventually came about was because everyone else I knew sat in there. And it was cheapest. Which is important when you have travelling costs to consider. Every penny counts, as my nanna says (usually involving two-for-ones at Aldi).

Now I have a daughter. This is the third reason. Have done for a while now: 15 months, to be precise. And a wife, lest I forget. A fourth reason. Now that wifey has finished her part-time degree, I will see more of her. Of us as a family. And this means that trips to Blundell Park, to wherever else, will become unpredictable. Me being there won't be unpredictable. I want to go to a game every other weekend. The numbers will be unpredictable though. Occasionally I could treat the little one, Emily (she has a name), to a day out. Cleethorpes, Em? Righty ho, into the car we go. Maybe Mummy wants to come to as well. Oh, it's a good deal in that quiet Main Stand you know. Child in for free. Maybe if I be myself they'll think I'm one as well. When I am alone - being a loner comes natural - I am going to try the Lower again this season. Not all the time, but fleetingly.

Sometimes, however, every other week means away trips. Town not getting my money. Ah, diddums. Well, it's not like I live in North-East Lincs. And this means missing the odd non-Tuesday home game. But I will still turn up at Blundell Park. I'm not deserting.

The summer will drift past, like a barge slowly gliding along the nearby Leeds-Liverpool canal. And the club's reminders will slip through my letterbox; each one I will open and feel a tinge of guilt. I should write. Explain to them. This is for the best. Although you might be £220-odd down in the summer, you'll be better off throughout the season. Remember to include how much Mrs Wilson spends at the Blundell Park tuck shop. The daughter might enjoy it. Get her revenge and drag her dad to games in the future. This means everyone will be happy. Me. Family. Town.