Lucky Pants and Handbags

Football is a ridiculous game.

Twenty two men chasing a bag of air and trying to kick it into an onion net.

Football is illogical.

The sport generates a nonsensical money for a very small minority while being simultaneously fawned and obsessed over by a herd of vulnerable and gullible fools who spend way too much time investing emotion into it. It creates it’s own irrational superstitions in people. Players and fans alike fall into routines, habits and practices that can take on a life of their own. Obsessive, compulsive and beautiful. What to wear? What not to wear? Quasi-religious devotions and statements of blind faith. It drives people, it owns people. It can define people and become a way of life.

Football is wonderful.

I gave up a season ticket at Brentford FC to take up my opportunity in Saudi Arabia.

It was a big decision for me; giving up my season ticket… 

… 

And moving to Saudi Arabia. 

Brentford had just reached the second tier of the football league structure in the UK for the first time in 21 years. They did it by playing positive, attacking and attractive football. My previous employer had agreed to weight my shift pattern against home fixtures so that I could attend matches. I was looking forward to the 14/15 season. But I managed to gain sight of a bigger picture and took the plunge. A full refund was obtained and a replacement air ticket to Dammam acquired.

But, I still managed to take in a couple of games before I left. I witnessed a draw against a strong looking Charlton on the opening day of the season and I witnessed my beloved’s exit from the League Cup against F*lham. And it was that F*lham game that I was reminded of last Friday evening when I attended my first football match in Saudi Arabia. The evenings had much in common in football terms and a series of apparently unlikely circumstances or coincidences.

Let me explain.

The story starts on a cool August evening where a wind squalled and it felt as if the heavens were about to open at any time. I met with Hel at Ealing Broadway station and travelled to the cathedral of football that is Griffin Park, Brentford.

Hopes were high. There was a real buzz about the club and a local derby in the cup just turned it up a notch. It was Brentford’s first meeting with F*lham for something like fourteen years. Our league form was good, there’s was appalling. They had been relegated, we had achieved the opposite. “Bee’s up, F*lham down” had been a staple terrace chant for months. We were at home. We have always been and always will be a better team. Good times!

On a personal level I really thought that we would win that night. I felt it in my heart. I’d followed my little pre-match routines. No colours (I’ve never seen Brentford win while wearing one of their shirts), The Clash’s London Calling was played en route and I said a quiet prayer to the playing spirit of Bob Booker. Nothing could go wrong.

But something was amiss. I could sense it immediately when I arrived. The vibe on the Ealing Road terrace wasn’t as good as I had imagined or as it should be. As if something in our mutual, shared, superstitious hearts knew that it was all about to go wrong. We were jumpy when we should have been jumping.

Neither team were good that night. We played at F*lham’s level. Inevitably, we conceded a goal and couldn’t pull back. Knocked out the cup by a near neighbour and fierce rival. A truly horrible way to say goodbye to my beloved. And it bothered me. My thoughts have drifted back to the evening on many occasion and I have endlessly tried to figure out what went wrong.

Then, a couple of nights ago, I lay awake in my Khobar bed and everything began to fall into place and I worked out what had happened.

It was about superstition. Something happened at Griffin Park that night that meant that lady luck favoured F*lham not the righteous “Bees”.

In a sleepless stupor, I seemed to recall strange glances, nervous half glances toward the section of the stand where Hel and I were standing. I recalled Harlee Dean, Stuart Dallas and Jake Bidwell all seemed to involuntarily glance up, nervously, into the corner where we stood. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and trawled the net for videos of the game. I watched the decisive goal over and over. And, then... again, I saw it. David Button’s eyes flitted toward the Ealing Road stand as the shot was taken. He looked confused, preoccupied and nervous.

But why? What would cause such nervousness and involuntary concern?

Well. I think I have pieced it together. And the truth is shocking…

Hel is a “Gooner”. But only as the result of a bet. It’s her story to tell and I can’t recall all the details but I know that she either won or lost a bet leading her to support Arsenal. All I know is that the alternative was not her local club – Leyton Orient – but West Ham United. In truth, if I had the energy or inclination, I would be able to build a stronger case to be a “Gooner” than a “Hammers” fan, so whether she won or lost is irrelevant, she walked away supporting a better side. That said, I can’t help but feel that it was just a bet over two “shitty” sticks.

Despite her North London affiliation, Hel agreed to come along to keep me company. I was happy. I like Hel. She’d been before and we had beaten AFC Wimbledon. She bought no negative superstitious baggage to the game.

But, that night, I recalled that Hel had come along with a two tone, black and white handbag. I liked the bag. I honestly did. It looked good. Hel has a sense of style. Hel has taste. But the bag depicted the colours of F*lham football club. That night, Hel bought actual, physical baggage to the game and I think this is the reason Brentford lost.

It is why the atmosphere was a bit down. It is why Brentford never really got into their stride. The players could sense it. A shadow like presence on Ealing Road which explains the player's nervous, involuntary glances into the stand. It’s what prevented David Button from making a routine save.

Hel’s handbag cost Brentford the match.

Now, I’m not blaming Hel. That would be totally unfair. But every rational person will have to admit that the handbag belonged to her, so - unfortunately - there must be a bit of guilt by association.

But why was I thinking about it last week?

Last Friday, I chose the local Dammam derby as my first Saudi Arabian football match. Al Nahda vs Ettifaq FC. 

Dammam is just up the road from Khobar. Maybe a twenty minute drive. Both teams are in the second tier of the Saudi league system – like Brentford are in England. At the time of the game, Al Nahda were top and Ettifaq were second in the league. Real grudge match territory. Just like Brentford v F*lham, Arsenal v Tottenham, Real Madrid v Barcelona or Harrow Borough v Wealdstone.

I asked an Arab work colleague what football was like and told him about the match. We spoke a few times. I even invited him along. A is a Real Madrid fan. Both times, A would keep saying is;

“Ettifaq. I know them, I know them. <smoker’s chuckle> They play Dammam.”

“Yes. Yes. Big stadium. Good stadium.”

“Yes. Many, many tickets… Too many tickets.”

“But, <adopts serious voice and leans in toward me> Saudi not good football, you know.”

“Not like Chelsea, Manchester United you know.”

“These team. Not top league. Second. <tone becomes dismissive>Very, very bad.”

“You must not go. You have good football on TV, no?”

Little did A know that this was just the confirmation that I needed to tip me over the edge? After his pep talk, it was confirmed. 100% certain. I had to go!

My boss and friend “K” agreed to join me and we set off with slightly differing levels of excitement. K is not a football fan preferring Union as a sport. At one point he requested – instructed, perhaps even pleaded – for me to kick him when he fell asleep and kick even harder if he snored. We both accepted that the quality may not inspire and we harboured fears that we would be alone in a vast football stadium.

We were not to know. There would be no opportunity to sleep.

I chose to support the away team – Ettifaq. Not that they were really the away team as they share the stadium with Al Nahda, but it was a principle. By the power of Google, I had established that although second, they were the “bigger” of the two clubs and most importantly, I liked their kit.

By the Power of Google!

The experience was far different to a UK game. Outside, the stadium map was dominated by a “mosque”. I know that I have had some near religious experiences at Griffin Park but I am rational enough to know that it is hope rather than faith that I rely on when we are a goal down with a minute to go… or a goal up with a minute to go! We were warmed up by images on the score boards from the two holy mosques. Half time was prayer time, so - obviously - the call to prayer was played over the PA. Seriously, I was seeing more religion at football than I had seen since I was at Ibrox or when Walton & Hersham visited Vale Farm in Wembley. But this was actual, real religion rather than a blind bigotry dressed up "religion's" clothing.

Devotion at Prince Mohammed bin Fahd Stadium, Dammam

We were checked twice on the way into the ground by police officers. We had to empty our pockets in front of childlike officers… the second displaying the type of train track braces on his teeth that go out of style in the UK at the age of twelve. We were warmly welcomed by some local fans who thrust free water bottles into our hands. Through broken English it was apparent that they were impressed that Europeans were coming to the game.

A big difference between this experience and other games and stadiums I have visited was that it was free entry. FREE! For what was, arguably, the biggest game of the season to date. But no-one appeared to be able to explain why. I am guessing that it relates to pride. Much of what I have seen in Saudi Arabia does. Last season, Ettifaq were relegated from the top tier of the game, I am guessing that they are encouraging as many supporters as possible into the ground to spur them on to achieve an immediate return to the top flight.

A Car Park Next to a Football Stadium

The ground was only a third full. Ten minutes prior to kick off it had fewer than 500 people present. Myself and K thought it could be a long soulless evening. A bit like winning a ticket to watch QPR. But the club were not content to let it be dull. Huge banners and flags were draped over the seating forcing the (fool) hardy fans who did attend to be packed together. The flags were on both sides of the ground, green red and white at our end and sky blue and navy at the opposite end. The club crest and team names dominated. There were no sponsor’s advertising spoiling the effect. Unity was further enhanced by a small group of fans using megaphones to drive chants and songs with the backup of drums and some kind of traditional reed, wind instrument.

From the moment the teams took to the field, the noise was deafening. The terraces rocked as the crowd drifted from chant to chant cajoled and encouraged by a small group of “faces” who stalked the stand driving everyone to join in. It was impossible not to. Before long, both K and I were wrapped up in the experience. I have no idea what the songs and chants were about but, silently imagined they were about F*lham and QPR losing. Everything remained good humoured. The atmosphere was inclusive and inspiring. This was the first place where I saw Arabs “letting their hair down”. Dressing in coloured thobes (green and red stripes), replica kits, flags, scarves, singing, dancing embracing friendship from others. The country feels so restrained and conservative at times, it was incredible and beautiful to witness the fans in full song and acting so similarly to their English counterparts. It made the World feel a bit smaller.

But, of course, even if Hel had wanted to and had made the long journey to Dammam to join me that night, she wouldn’t have been allowed into the ground. Not because Ettifaq would fear her losing the game for them by an accidental accessory faux pas but because women are not allowed to attend football matches.

Check out the attached:

Female Football Fan Causes Outrage

All the time, the Directors box on the other side of the ground was bathed in a gold light. Dressed in white thobes and red/white checked gutra. The power and influence was obvious. Football in Saudia Arabia is a rich man’s hobby. The ground was segregated in such a way to make it obvious. None of the crowd could miss having a direct view of the owners. Given that it was free, it was almost as if we were there for them to have a “real match atmosphere” as it was for us to enjoy.

Although there were advertising hoardings around the pitch, they were visible only for the TV cameras. None faced the crowd. Neither of the teams wore sponsorship. It was very different to the English and European games where sponsorship of the smallest thing is driven and encouraged. Shirts, players, players shirts… players boot laces FFS are sold to companies and individuals to encourage involvement and deliver revenue. I’m not saying it is wrong and I understand that most football in the UK would cease to exist without it, but it really is not something that I like about the game. It felt refreshing to watch a football match where I did not feel as if I was consumer fodder at every turn.

And all the time the crowd entertained and enthralled. Which is more than can be said for the football. My colleague, A, was right. The quality is far from the best.

Neither team impressed. The game seemed dominated by players trying to exhibit their personal skills rather than deliver a team performance. For every deft touch of the ball, attacks were easily countered and the two teams quickly fell into a cold, bleak stalemate. The only footballing highlights were the referee taking a ball to the gonads on the half hour resulting in a few minutes delay and a penalty scored by Ettifaq. 

GOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL! A GOAL!!

Although happy, the goal only encouraged a slightly increased noise from the fans. The fans seemed happy just to party. A goal was just a bonus. Both teams played the type of game that gives the sport a bad name. All players were faking foul and injury. I swear that one Al Nahda player covered more distance rolling around the pitch in apparent “agony” after one innocuous challenge than he did playing through the rest of the bloody game…

Another player needs a lie down so orders a taxi.

Check Out the Directors Box

So I continued to find my solace and inspiration in the crowd.

K and I stood out. We were the only outsiders, the only white faces and the only Europeans at the match. We were welcomed with good humour and open arms. I’ve already said that we were greeted at the gates but the warmth continued inside the ground. Football has this ability to break language barriers. I’ve found it the World around. From conversations in Milan taxis, Ukrainian bars and more recently in the aisles of – the love of my life – LuLu in Al Khobar, a football shirt, scarf or badge allows a mutual context to drop your sparse language skills into. In Saudi Arabia, especially over on the eastern coast, it is even easier. The presence of so much American money and past British colonialism close to the region means that most people have a better grip on English. Certainly better than my appalling Arabic. Into the second half K and I ended up chatting to a man close to us who had worked and lived in Leicester. We spoke Chelsea and Manchester United. He had not heard of Brentford. Many fans wanted to pose with us for photos. We duly obliged. We were rewarded with free scarves…

Oh Dear...

K and I agreed that the atmosphere and the spirit of the crowd made it both one of the best but most surreal nights that we have witnessed in the Middle East or beyond. One of those nights that will live on and on in the memory.

But back to the game and back to my memory of Hel’s handbag costing Brentford a League Cup match.

Soon into the second half, I confided in K that I thought that Ettifaq, having taken the lead were doing enough that the only way that they would lose is if they gave the game away.

And they promptly did. A soft penalty and a lack of concentration in the 90^th minute resulted in them losing 2-1 heading deep into the forth minute of injury time… And – as would be the case the World round – the fans started to turn and show frustration and impatience for the first time. The game appeared sown up for Ettifaq but two stupid, unnecessary errors had cost them. It was then that the actual game took precedence. For the final five minutes, Ettifaq threw caution to the wind and really pushed the game. The final kick of the game was a thirty yard pile driver shot that would have hit the net had a butterfly in Thailand or possibly a moth at the stadium, compelled to take flight toward the stark, bright floodlights brushed its wings, creating a reaction of energy that caused the ball to change path mid-air and hit the inside of the post.

Ettifaq had lost. K and I made the twenty minute journey back to Khobar.

Later that evening, as I undressed for bed I realised that I was wearing pants in the colours of Al Nahda’s kit.

Near naked and with a hollow heart, I realised that Ettifaq FCs loss had been inevitable. Worse still, football superstition dictates that it was my fault. All my fault!

A final note…

For the record and before I start getting blunt emails and become the unlucky and deserved recipient of her legendary “I’m not happy eyebrow/frown/pout combo”, if Brentford lost the game as a direct result of Hel bringing her black and white handbag to the game, I forgive her.

I forgive Hel entirely and completely. 

I forgive Hel because I have no doubt that it was unintentional. Hel was unknowing, she didn’t set out to scupper Brentford’s chances in the League Cup. She’s not like that. I know her well. I forgive her because, one day, I want Hel to join me at Brentford’s new Community Stadium to watch a game… maybe one where we beat Tottenham Hotspur, so that she can feel properly involved and really enjoy it.

And I forgive because, I am a forgiving type of guy.

But, mostly, I forgive her because Brentford need to concentrate on their league form this season. After all, it was only a crappy cup competition, anyway.