Three forty five. Pee. Emm. Friday.
I’m coming down the stairs, two at a time. My big orange anorak in my arms. Smile on my face. Signed timesheets in my fist.
“Hey,” she says looking up at me, “don’t tell me you’re going home already!”
“OK,” I reply, “I’m not telling you.”
Like most of the others, she will be here for some hours yet. A meeting, progress and target data, seemingly endless planning for jumping through next week’s hoops.
I haven’t been near my mobile phone all day, but as I edge into the last school-run traffic of the week – some courteous drivers out there, today, thank you – it rings.
My brother. He who had my season ticket and said he would be in the queue for nine o’clock this morning. What queue/ the one for Walsall’s first-ever Wembley appearance of course! I guess he’s ringing me to tell me mission completed: the Wembley tickets safely in his grasp. That he’s at home. When do I want to collect them?
NO! he’s still in the queue, estimating a couple of hours before he gets to the front. Been there since ten thirty this morning! Trying not to sound miserable … he does.
“D’you want me to come and take over?”
“If you could …”
Takes me forty or so minutes. Facebook is full of up-dates: the first people started the queue at three a.m!
I hop over the security fencing, people all around are quiet, resigned, full of Saddlers humour:
“Who would have thought this many people would want tickets for the Doncaster game tomorrow eh?”
On Ashley Grimes first goal (against Gillingham earlier this week); “they say there’s a new souvenir shirt on sale in the club shop. Says on it; “Ashley Grimes … I was there when he scored!”
This self-mocking is a happy characteristic, it seems, of many Walsall supporters; easy, casual and tongue in cheek; just in case we get to taking ourselves too seriously.
“Is this the queue for Elton John tickets?”
“My mate said that show’ll be the first time a queen has been to Walsall …”
We have a game at home (Rochdale) on Tuesday night, then on Saturday, again at home against Port Vale. Saturday is Valentine’s day. “Is it?” somebody isn’t sure.
“Yes,” chips in somebody else, “I’ll have to do something about that then.”
“What? Like buy yourself a Valentine’s card?”
Repartee. Nobody taking offence. But perhaps you have to be English to get it.
I haven’t got any money, no credit card, so I have to borrow my brother’s. He tells me his P.I.N. I keep saying it to myself, so as not to forget it. Then the train spotters around me (yes, really) start talking locomotive numbers and I become confused.
During the day, the queue started in the car park, went in through the away supporters entrance, down the pitch side track, out of the exit and to the ticket offices. The security man tells me he’s been on duty since six this morning. There are four ticket windows in operation. The ladies behind the windows, clearly tiring, are nonetheless doing a sterling job. They have to check season ticket details, find the correct seats, take financial details and wait for the tickets to be printed – away from the desks. Another lady is ferrying the tickets from the printer to the windows.
Behind window 1 the lady signals and says to the security guard:
“No more here for a while!” Then moves away.
Stan, long-time fan and club legend, apparently he hasn’t missed a game: home or away since 1970-something, has an armful of season tickets. Every season ticket is allowed to purchase up to six tickets today; general sales commence later. He has to reel off names and addresses from a list on a multi-folded paper. There had been grumbles: tickets should be per person, not per season ticket, it’s not fair. But this is allocations. If the initial allocation sells out, the club simply asks for more (s I understand it).
The chief of security comes forwards:
“Why are we one down?” he asks over my shoulder, nodding to the vacant chair behind Window 1.
“She’s gone for a cigarette.”
“What!” he says.
“Really? There’s a three hour queue and somebody’s got to take time out for a fag?”
I can understand he is irritable. But I haven’t been there all day, I am getting civilly served and will soon be on the way home. I also understand that every now and again it is wise to take a breather (if not a cigarette) or mistakes will be made.
My niece is heading for South Africa tomorrow. My brother needs his card back, so I drop it off on the way home. Then I’m home and drinking tea.
Not as soon as I’d imagined when I joined the traffic in Burton some two and a half hours earlier.
But we have got the tickets.
A big, much deserved thanks to my brother for standing in the queue for five-and-a-bit hours, to the people in the queue for their company and humour – and to the staff in the ticket office and security team for their endeavours.
Oh and an interesting aside from the Express and Star last night. Every club bar one (Huddersfield perhaps) that Andy Butler has played for has got to Wembley the year after he left. Why did we have to keep him so long? As somebody (was it me?) asked in the queue that is already fading into memory.
Saturday. Five forty five p.m.
After a walk over Cannock Chase and an afternoon up at the allotment I listen to local radio to find that Walsall have won two – nil up at Doncaster (coincidentally where said Andy Butler is now plying his trade). Ashley Grimes a scorer? No: goals from Jordan Cook (in the first three minutes) and twenty year old loanee Jordy Hiwula in the second half.
Trials and Trails: life and times of a Walsall fan 