Road To Wembley - The Final
I can
honestly say that last weekend was one of the funniest rugby trips I’ve had in
a long time – maybe even ever. I feel
like I’ve seen more of the Big Smoke than I ever have done after this weekend
and I’ll never view public transport in the same light again!
From a
miscommunication in train stations, unnecessary taxi rides, fantastic rugby
league and meeting up with old friends, this weekend seemed to have everything.
I’ll try
and give you a rundown of what my weekend consisted of and hopefully you’ll
have a little giggle at it as well.
FRIDAY
The first
hurdle I had to get over actually came the less than 12 hours before we were
due to set off. My dad called me on the
Thursday evening and his immediate words were ... ‘We’ve got a problem!” So thanks to those rather uncomforting words
I already had thoughts rushing through my mind of lost tickets, no tickets,
cancelled trains, broken limbs – you name it, I was thinking it. It felt like it was starting in a similar way
to my visit to Toronto back in May. My
dad was meant to come on that trip as well but his visa didn’t come through in
time.
Luckily
it was just a slight change in my plans to catch the train the following
morning. I was meant to join our party on
the Friday morning train to London Euston from Wigan North Western but dad had
received a tip-off from a (quote, unquote) “reliable source” that the train we
would be on was no longer stopping at Wigan, or Warrington, but going directly
to London from Preston.
So after
a sigh of relief that the trip was still on I assured my dad that it wouldn’t
be a major problem to get to Preston instead, it just meant a slightly earlier
set off time from home. But, lo and
behold, as I joined the gang in Preston and set off on the train, what were the
next two stops? Wigan North Western and
Warrington!! After a few tuts and groans
from myself and threats of charging the organisers, Cath and Tony, my expenses for
the extra £7 I had to pay to get up to Preston all was forgotten and the
journey was a good one.
I’d like
to put here that Cath and Tony also organised last year’s trip to London but
they were adamant that that would be their last time. However, their itchy feet meant they just couldn’t
leave it alone and the only difference this time was that we were on a train
and not in a coach! I arrived to not one
but two meat pies, a crate of lager off my dad, reserved seats and all was
well.
As we’d
set off nice and early we arrived in the capital in good time. Everyone left the train together but somehow,
in the space of less than a quarter of a mile we all seemed to split
apart. My dad and I arrived at our hotel
(which was the Travelodge across the road) first, despite leaving the station
last, soon followed by everyone else rocking up between five and 15 minutes
later from various different directions.
God knows where they’d all been.
After
checking in we were informed by the hotel receptionist that we would be sharing
a double bed. I genuinely think the last
time this happened I was nine and it was at Disney World in Florida – I was
originally sharing with my older sister but because she was severely sunburnt,
and I had a habit of kicking her in my sleep, I was duly chucked out and had to
sleep elsewhere.
So after
making our way through a crowd 15 to 20 people ranging from about 18 to 70
years old all stuck in the same corridor trying to find our rooms, some of whom
weren’t with our party (think scene from a Carry
On... film), we made it. A quick
shower and change and we made the first of many trips to the Royal George next
door for a well earned pint.
Ultimately,
we were in London to watch rugby league so it would have been rude to miss out
on London Skolars’ home match with the South Wales Ironmen. It was by no means a glamour tie as both
sides are languishing in the League 1 Shield group but dad had arranged to meet
up with some friends from Barrow Raiders so we made the short trip on the tube
to Wood Green station.
A nice
walk down White Hart Lane in the late evening sunshine found us at the New
River Stadium for a second year running and, yet again, the real ale kegs were
flowing. There was a lot on the game for
the home side as they could move to the top of the League 1 Shield table with
victory and were still in with a shout of claiming a piece of silverware at the
end of the season if they can finish inside the top two and claim a place in
the Shield Final.
The
Ironmen on the other hand were rooted to the bottom of the table by a point
following a couple of disappointing results against fellow strugglers Hemel
Stags and Oxford in recent weeks and would be desperate to make a good show of
themselves in front a decent crowd of just over 1,000.
But the
Skolars are on a role at present and produced a decent performance in this
Friday Night Lights match to record a record sixth-successive win since turning
pro as the Ironmen couldn’t stop them scoring six tries to one and gaining a
32-4 victory.
If the match was relatively uneventful
then the mascot once again made up for it in his enthusiasm for his Skolars
team. Running up and down the athletics
track like a young Usain Bolt he lived every minute of this game. Thankfully for him the Skolars were much more
comfortable than they were in last year’s defeat to Toulouse where he spent
much of that game on his knees praying to the heavens.
The evening ended with a few drinks
around the Wood Green tube station before it was back to the hotel for an early(ish)
night.
SATURDAY
Saturday morning arrived and the
excitement intensified as today was the real reason for our annual pilgrimage
to London – the Challenge Cup Final – at Wembley Stadium – Hull FC v Wigan
Warriors.
As is tradition we all wore our Barrow
colours and sat down to enjoy breakfast and talk rugby league. During which I stood up to replenish my empty
plate and was stopped in my tracks by an elderly gentleman who had spotted my
Barrow Raiders shirt. He started telling
me all about how he once played in a Hull side that travelled to Craven Park
and lost the game.
He was wearing a Hull FC Vice President
jacket and he turned out to be a Mr Arthur Brummitt, a member of the Hull FC
Vice President’s Association. Not only
that but whilst talking to him, his wife and daughter Susan for some time we
realised that they know my in-laws and live very close to their farm in East
Yorkshire. Talk about living in a small
world.
It wasn’t long after that when we made
our way across North West London to Wembley where we had planned to meet my
cousin, Gail, for a drink and to pass on a couple of tickets we had to for the
game for her and her friend whose birthday it happened to be. We always seem to forget which Wembley stop
to get off at for the stadium and, as we did last year, we alighted at Wembley
Central which is a good half a mile walk up to the venue rather that the easier
Wembley Park. After eventually finding
my cousin we made our way into the pre-match Fanzone.
As we stood drinking, talking and
reminiscing about memories of playing jokes on our family members
(predominantly Gail on her younger sister) it turned out that Gail’s friend had
never been to a rugby league game before.
Being from the south he had a rather well-to-do accent but claimed he
wasn’t posh. However, he didn’t help his
argument when he stated the only time he’d been to a sporting event which had
almost as big a crowd as this one was a polo match! Enough said.
As the clock ticked nearer kick off time
we went our separate ways into the stadium and agreed to meet after the game
for another round of drinks. The seats
we were in were fantastic (and I had many a moment winding Ian up afterwards
about our seats compared to his) and as it wasn’t too crowded in our area spent
time looking around the stadium at the other supporters making their way to
their seats.
Being tied to Hull by marriage I was on
the side of the Black and Whites and was confident enough to put a whole one pound
bet on the outcome that Hull would come out victorious. My dad claimed that he was forcing himself to support
FC, despite them being from the wrong side of the Pennines, as he just didn’t
like Wigan.
The game was too close to call but the
first ten minutes belonged to the Warriors where they took a 6-0 lead thanks to
John Bateman’s try and George Williams’ conversion to put pressure on the cup
holders early on. They weren’t ahead for
too long though as by 20 minutes Hull had turned the score to 12-6 in their
favour with tries from Fetuli Talanoa and Mahe Fonua, both converted by Mark
SNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYD, the eventual Man of the Match.
But Wigan would come back and set up a
nervy second 40 minutes when Oliver Gildart crossed for a try to make the score
12-10 at half time. During the break we
went and topped up our drinks and got chatting to Gail’s son Lee, who happened
to be sitting fairly near to us. Having
not seen him for a long while it was great to catch up and complement him on
his further receding hairline (and in-joke between us two cousins).
As a neutral it was easy for me to sit
back and enjoy the match but for supporters of either side it must have been
hell on earth. Hull scored again ten
minutes into the half – an amazing diving effort from Fonua – and managed to
hold on until the final seven minutes when Wigan made it 18-14 from Joe Burgess’
try.
In between those the video referee sided
with the on-field referee and disallowed a try for each side. The first denied Fonua a hat-trick for obstruction
when it looked all-the-world a certain try as, for the life of me and the
majority of the supporters in the stadium, there didn’t seem to be anything
wrong in the build-up.
The second was when the video ref
finally judge Tony Clubb to have knocked on but only after spending a good few
minutes edging the video backward and forward to determine if the ball was
stripped in the act of scoring (“They tried everything they could to give Wigan
that try!” was my dad’s response). If
that had been given it could have paved the way for the Warriors to win the
match.
But the drama didn’t end there as right
on the final minute the referee brought play back for a forward pass as Burgess
went over. Thinking they had equalised
the red and white side of the stadium went absolutely crazy but soon quietened
down when they realised it had also been disallowed. There was no need for the
video ref that time as it was clearly forward from where we were sat.
I would go as far as saying this game
was better than last year’s Final. Once
again FC were outstanding but Wigan’s decent spell in the last 15 minutes or so
was good enough for them to have nicked it if the match had continued for a
further five or ten minutes.
With the final whistle came the joy of
winning my bet – all of £3.30 including my pound back. “Better in your pocket that theirs” as the
saying goes ... but don’t make a habit of it.
Please gamble responsibly! The
seats were great and I even managed to sneak on TV as the teams went up the
steps to claim their prizes. I’ve got a
great video of Hull walking up and lifting the trophy which I’ll cherish for a
long time.
I was in awe of both Sneyd’s kicking
game, as I have been all season and against Leeds in the Semi Final, and Fonua’s
shaved top and mullet hair style, which I had to raise an eyebrow at?! Only a top sportsman could get away with something
like that.
After the game we let the pedestrian
traffic die down by stopping for a drink at the Double 6 Bar on Wembley Park
Drive – a bar that appears small and crammed from the inside but wander through
to the back and you come across London’s very own Narnia! A huge beer garden, with its own bar and
toilets, that would fit the inside of the pub in it at least three times over.
Another bonus from the day came when Gail’s
friend confirmed that he had been converted to rugby league after watching that
match and was struck by the sheer noise within the Stadium at times.
Later in the evening we ventured down to
Covent Garden where we had been told the Hull fans would be celebrating. Indeed they were. When we got to a crossroads with pubs on
either side, the street was full of Black and White rugby fans singing Old Faithful, Come on you ‘Ull, and We’re
the Black and White Army and whacking a poor street rubbish bin for a drum
beat. Fair play to the pair of female
Wigan supporters in the pub across the road who put up a very good fight with
their own, singing and chanting when prompted by the hoard of Hull fans.
SUNDAY
Now then; where the hell do I start with
Sunday...?
After spending a relaxing afternoon in a
Greenwich beer garden I feel like I could make my way around the capital with
my eyes closed. We went on such a
varying amount of public transport that I swear if I see another big red bus I’ll
throw myself in the Thames next year!
Whilst we were eating breakfast we decided
to join a number of the group on a boat trip along the river from Waterloo
Bridge to Greenwich ... or was it Westminster Bridge?
And that’s where the problems
started. Being part of a group of people
where you’re the youngest by at least ten years automatically puts you in the
position of event organiser – or more appropriately, ‘Group Carer’!
The day started with a ride on the number
58 bus. No, hang on ... number 59 ... I
think. As expected it took us all the
way to the other side of Waterloo Bridge.
Not the bridge we needed to be at.
Cue the jokes and jibes in Terry’s direction. We needed to be back on the north side of the
Thames at Westminster Pier so I decided to jump in a taxi with Cath and Tony
and wait for the rest of the party there.
The trip along the Thames was
great. The sun was shining; there was a
nice breeze and an excellent tour-guide-who-wasn’t-a-tour-guide-just-a-crew-member
who pointed out all the sights along the river.
Luckily I’d taken some sun cream and smothered myself in it so didn’t
feel like I was burning up.
We docked up at Greenwich Pier and
enjoyed a few pints in The Gypsy Moth pub behind the Cutty Sark. At first it was hard to get a table for six
of us (we’d lost the other six so we decided to stick together) but good old
Ian spotted a couple of lasses moving off a six-seater and subsequently moved
the fastest I’d ever seen him move to get us the table.
On the way back our enviable record of
getting on the wrong public transport continued. Needing to be on the other side of
Westminster Bridge we eventually bartered with two Eastern European taxi bike
riders to take us where we needed to go for the grand sum of £25. So we squeezed into to bikes and set off ... literally
across the bridge where they turned around and dropped us at a bus stop! I genuinely thought they were taking us back
to Euston.
We were then unsure what bus to catch. I can’t even remember which bus it was but it
took us to Trafalgar Square and went back over the bridge the way we had come. It was the most pointless £25 any of us had
ever spent. I asked a number of bus
drivers which one we had to get to Euston but none of them went that far. Therefore we caught the 456, 463, 435 or
whatever it was to Oxford Street.
We got all the way down Oxford Street
when I realised we’d come too far and had to cross the road and go back the way
we had come... again. Eventually we got
on the number 10 which went directly to the junction where our hotel was. Thanks to a helpful local lady, who enjoyed
our unique northern sense of humour, we managed to get back. It had somehow taken us three and a half hours
to get back so we immediately went into the Royal George and downed the first
pints we got. We needed them.
After reconvening at nine o’clock I’d already
arranged to meet a friend from Leigh, Alan, who I’d met in London last year and
kept in touch with. Alan was only round
the corner so my dad and I made our excuses and wandered around to spend the
rest of the night in the company of a handful of Leigh Centurion fans.
I suppose I’ve digressed away from the
rugby a bit this week but I’ve always tried to give a picture of my Challenge
Cup experience and the whole Cup Final weekend is fully part of it. The journey back on Monday was thankfully straight
forward and I was able to get off at Wigan North Western as originally planned.
It’s been another wonderful year
following the Challenge Cup from start to finish. I’ve been to a number of new stadiums and seen
a variety of different teams and can’t wait to start again next year. 18 rounds and counting...
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about it
as much as I have doing it.
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