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Coventry City v Luton Town: Therapy or Punishment?

Sport // Jim // 1st February 2007

Well the last week has been total fucking shit. A mixture of total bollocks at work, one utterly fucked up knee and a subtle sense of doomed anxiety haven’t been all that fun.

Monday started poorly, got gradually worse and, just when I thought things were going to be looking up, ended with a right old kick in the bollocks, like any sensible person who is feeling a bit fed-up I thought positive thoughts and tried to look on the bright side. That was a complete fucking waste of time as I don’t have a bright side. So I went to the pub and got drunk. Then I went home and got much, much more drunk.

This subtle coping strategy backfired nastily when I then woke up at five in the morning and was unable to back to sleep because I was feeling upset and then had to endure the bit of the hangover that you usually get to sleep through. I don’t recommend this at all.

Up on Tuesday, off work and a super mixture of family and shopping awaits my pounding head and unsure feeling stomach. Its not too bad and I have my glum backside on the sofa by the early afternoon. Read a bit but my heart’s not really in it, realise I’m supposed to be playing badminton in a while so force some water down my neck after having the yellowest piss ever and diagnosing myself as a touch dehydrated.

Get to sports centre and start beating someone soundly at badminton, but it’s a hollow victory as I break yet another fucking racquet while trying to hit the shuttle far too hard. Stumble round to reception to borrow the spare concrete racquet they keep in the cupboard. There is a new girl on the desk and she ain’t having none of it:

Me: “Hello, I’ve broken my racquet, can I borrow another”

Her: (flatly) “They are for hire only, it’s five pounds”

Me: “I don’t have my wallet I’m in the middle of playing”

Her: (extremely flatly) “They are for hire only, it’s five pounds”

Me: “Well, if I break it I’ll give you the money at the end”

Her: (flatter than Holland) “They are for hire only, it’s five pounds”

Me: (Attempting some sort of sweaty, red-faced charm), “Please…”

Her: (as flat as James Brown’s cardiograph) “NO, They are for hire ONLY, it’s five pounds”

Me: (last throw of the dice) “The other lady lets me borrow one”

Her: (suddenly smiling) “Oh, that’s fine then”

She dashes off and gets my the dodgy community racquet, the grip is a bit minging, make a mental note to wash my hands thoroughly before touching my cock. Or eating.

Make a second mental note that “The other lady lets me borrow one” seems to be some kind of password for girls. I wish I’d known that when I was younger, could have saved me all sorts of problems, upsets and fixed penalty fines.

Finish off badminton; foot is hurting more than knee. Get home take off trainer to find a load of blood on my sock, Boots blister plasters have totally failed to work and now a two inch flap of skin is hanging off the sole of my foot. Cut it off with the kitchen scissors with such lack of care and skill that I manage to take a fairly hefty chunk of healthy foot with it.

At this point sitting tired, still hungover, feeling utterly rejected, totally miserable and a bit bloody having just nearly performed an unnecessary toe-ectomy, I feel I have reached a low point in my admittedly not all that high-flying life. To be honest, for the first time in years I think I’m about to break down in tears and sob like a TV evangelist who has just been exposed as a part-time abortionist and full-time nonce.

Sort of pulling myself together I realise that I need to do something that will definitely cheer me up, so I go and thoroughly wash my hands. Then realise that this course of action is a bit of a quick fix. I try to think of another, more social activity that will distract, entertain and inspire me through my ongoing malaise.

I know.

I’ll go and watch Coventry City play Luton Town.

“Yes”, says the most rational part of my brain, “That’s a fucking great idea, Jim. Why not push yourself right over the edge? Well done”.

The half-arsed, romantic, fuck-witted bit of my brain that I do most of my thinking with is unmoved and I go to meet Dan who has kindly offered me a lift to the majestic Ricoh Arena. Stop off at a garage for some cash and realise that I’ve eaten nothing in ages, oh good God, the only thing on display is the comedy “Chicken on a stick” that I’ve dodged several times before. My growling stomach demands tribute though so it’ll have to do. I open the window to avoid the delicate pungent scent seeping into the upholstery of Dan’s motor.

Get to Cov making a concerted effort not to be a moping twat, mostly manage it. We are taking the piss about something so we don’t hear all of the team news on CWR as Dan is parking up.

One thing is for certain though, although Chelsea may have all sorts of simmering behind the scenes tension, Coventry are leading the way in internal strife, not one, but two massive punch ups in training last week means that Page and Doyle have both been dropped. Fucking hell I bet that was a great fight.

Get to the ticket office and secure tickets down the front of the CET stand, every other person in the queue is trying to flog tickets on the cheap following a season ticket holder promotion. It’s like a shite touts convention in there with many middle aged men trying to stealthily ask if I am interested in some cheap tickets.

Take our seats just as the game is going to kick off, settle down for a pulsating opening 45 minutes of sexy, samba football from the Sky Blues to warm us up on a chilly January evening and distract me from feeling shite.

Ten minutes later Dan wakes me up because I have started snoring and I’ve dribbled all down my shoulder. Christ, this is a terrible game of football, No confidence from anyone apart from new signing Colin Hawkins, who has been playing in some sort of shanty town Irish league of late and looks both solid as a rock and a decent player - doesn’t say much for all the others on the pitch really.

Luton are dire, but despite looking safe at the back, Cov are not much better. McNamee goes on an impressive run but seems to realise that he has no let foot at the crucial moment and fails to get any sort of shot off. At all.

Big Dele goes on one of his runs across the area, instead of having a crack he carries on and gives the impression that he is in fact going to go home via the tunnel in the corner of the arena.

Yawn, nothing has happened for the last ten minutes, hang on we’ve got a free kick. Newly restored captain and Leamington restaurant critic, Stephen Hughes, runs up and has a crack at the ball, managing to impart all the forward force that a wet tissue would provide if slapped against the back of a tractor. The Luton keeper is kind enough to put a bit of a dive in, but I doubt it would have made it over the line.

It’s getting really dull and a bit cold now. Dan points out that the sparse gathering of Luton fans (no more than three hundred I reckon) have partially obscured the “SKY BLUES” pattern on the seats behind the opposite goal so that it now appears to read “ShY LES”, easily the most entertaining thing we’ve seen so far, apart from the fat, lazy ballboy nearest us who seems to be taking the sponsored by Coca-Cola thing a bit far.

The bloke sat next to me is really annoying, he just keeps shouting “Head up, Hughsey” and “Move for it Mifsud” despite the fact that the Maltese dubutee is running around like a twat. Now and again he stops shouting shite to condescend to his bored and cold girlfriend, who seems to understand a whole lot more than he does.

Thank fuck, for that its half time, stand up to get some blood that I’ve got left flowing back around the legs. Trevor Peake is interviewed and the elephant mascot goes absolutely fucking mental and does about a hundred forward rolls, which gets the biggest cheer we’ve heard from the near 19,000 crowd that we’ve heard all night.

The second half commences with a display from Dele that suggests that he really does want to get home because there is a Terry and June double bill on UK Gold in a bit. He seems to be carrying a bit of a knock and wants to get off the pitch. This doesn’t stop Andrew Whing who so far looks like he couldn’t pass water from knocking the ball to him several times as he limps for the sidelines.
Here comes Kevin Kyle as a direct replacement and fairly soon we also get Mckenzie and Thornton for Birchall and the fairly impressive Isaac Osbourne.

Kyle immediately gets things going by knocking the shit out of the Luton defence at every opportunity and winning all his headers. Top marks to home secretary for his comments about not sending everyone to jail, because otherwise big Kevin could have been in a cell in Stranraer due to his copper bothering ways. He is working hard but looks like he couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat, his last effort was spooned well wide.

Thornton is looking like the most composed player on the pitch and is starting to dictate things. This is still fairly naff but it’s about a million times better than the first half.

Thornton finds Mifsud who is now out on the right, he plays in Mckenzie who scores via a deflection off a Luton defender past their hapless keeper. Get in! It was scruffy but well put together, like a lapdancer with a beard.

City are now playing with a bit more purpose Kyle and Thornton stand over a free kick which is floated in for Marcus Hall to be denied by a great save from Brill in the Luton goal.

Into the last few minutes and four minutes of stoppage time are announced, oh good just time for a few threatening corners then, like the one we have just conceded. Somehow everything is cleared and despite one appeal from the Luton travelling contingent for something or other, we hold on and record our first win in absolutely ages. Some of the players are doing a sort of lap of honour. Calm down lads.

Dan drops me back and although I’m still feeling fairly moody, the win has cheered me up though. Get in and check my e-mail, got one from LoveFilm, they are pleased to tell me that the next film that they will be sending is Shooting Dogs. Oh that’s going to help. You depressing bastards.