Cod Almighty | Article
by Roger Swindells
22 September 2003
Where were you when you heard the Hartlepool score? Actually at the match? Must have been painful. Or in the chat room, perhaps? Even more agony as goal after goal, unseen but heard only, went in.
But spare a thought for me - the official pessimist on holiday in Menorca. Picture the scene if you will. Saturday morning and Swin, heavily hungover, has remembered that Town played at Hartlepool the previous night.
The first edition of the papers was shipped out to the island from the UK too early to carry the result, so there I am, resplendent in my Mariners shirt, scurrying up and down Mahon high street looking for a later edition.
Just then a voice booms out from across the street. "'Ere, you! 'Ucking codhead!" Can he possibly mean me? Codhead? Surely not - haddockhead maybe, but codhead? Never! But he does mean me, so I turn and there is a big hairy-arsed Taaargers fan, also in his club shirt. I briefly consider pretending to be a Newcastle fan, but it'd be useless.
Using the full extent of his vast Anlaby Road vocabulary, he continues. "What happened to your 'ucking team last night then? Eight 'ucking one against 'ucking Hartlepools U-'ucking-nited [why do they always put an 's' on it?]. What a load of 'ucking shite."
It took a moment to sink in, and at first I thought he was joking but it was clear he was not, so I immediately churned out all the usual excuses used by the mad optimists on the Fishcake. "The refs are all against us." Then: "It's early days yet." Followed by: "Just wait 'til all the new players start to gel together." And finally: "We had a lot of suspensions and injuries."
The Neanderthal Taaargers fan was clearly even less convinced than I was. I considered "we was robbed" but decided that was a bit weak after an 8-1 hammering. I was tempted to fall back on "we're still a division higher than your lot" but though this is currently the case, who is to say, given the way things are going, whether it will still be true come April or May? So I slunk away and did what Swin does best - went on the piss.
Returning to my usual English bar was not an option after having given an audience of 25 retired resident ex-pats ten choruses of 'sing when we're fishing', two of 'we piss on your fish' and one 'Livvo for England' the previous night, in anticipation of a comfortable three points for Town.
I went therefore to a Spanish bar, had a few and later watched Real Madrid - Spain's version of Hartlepool - score seven against Valladolid, a Spanish version of Town but with talent as they managed to score two.
To add insult to injury, not only did Town get beaten again while I was away (to coincide nicely with the first time I crept back into my original bar), but my insurance company has totally failed to grasp how something as traumatic as this event can ruin a life, not just a holiday, and have refused to accept my claim.