What struck me from the away end (apart from the two blue flares hurled over our heads into the six-yard box after Blackburn’s third went in) was the sheer number of people from Birmingham who took the time out of their lives to make the 220-mile round-trip to watch a nothing team.
Every single one of them deserves a refund and a hand-written letter of apology from the manager. Ordinarily I’d also demand a shirt signed by the first-team, but the kit they turned up in was like something from a toddler’s paint box. I don’t know too much about the Boys In Royal Blue but their traditional colours aren’t an orange and snot-green tiger print. No idea which colourblind dolt at Nike signed that one off but it looks like the aura around a migraine.
Thanks in the main to Peaky Blinders, the Birmingham accent is no longer the most effective contraceptive known to man. At first the Blues fans were a jovial, if lively, bunch who looked like they’d been through a lot together. The mood only soured after Chilean folk hero Ben Brereton Diaz coolly dispatched his spot-kick to put Rovers 3-0 up with half an hour of torture still to go.
There is no lonelier place than the away end of a football ground when the home side is taking your team to pieces. The colossal roar that greets each goal feels like a personal insult.
Honestly, they might as well shout “Your dad’s dead”, “Your grown-up children resent you” and “Your wife’s heard everything you’ve got to say and is bored of you”. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. After 80 minutes of a 4-0 hammering we’d seen enough. It was like watching a beloved family pet being put to sleep. Worse?
How could it possibly get any worse? How about a £35 parking ticket that greeted my buddy on his return to his car? Yeah, that’s worse.