"Some caller rang in last night because they'd heard a rumour that a hurricane was on it's way over.¤ I shall stipulate that there's no cause for concern, so don't panic".
Those were the infamous words echoed by legendary Weatherman, Michael Fish, back in October 1987, twenty-four hours before the nation was in danger of being swept away in a tidal wave of unprecedented chaos.¤ Simultaneously, such an eloquent phrase could have been attached to the sequence of events that transpired in sleepy Suffolk on Saturday afternoon.
Such exuberant hallucinations weren't really entering my mind at eight oˇclock in the morning though!¤ Come to think of it, one wasn't even entertaining the idea of embarking along any form of logical parallels.
After recovering from the previous evening's shock of entering a high-class establishment that actually served Red Stripe, cool and fresh from the tap, compulsions took over my body as one pint after another was devoured. So shockingly stunning, it was comparable to a newly born sucking away at itˇs mothers sumptuous 38dd barrage balloons ? erected nipples et al.
Needless to say, I awoke to the excruciating site of uncovered accommodation on Planet Inebriation Hangoverism.¤ Palpitations were tearing around the interior of my head, angrily gesticulating towards the idea of staying in bed for at least another four hours, and not to bother contemplating that long trek towards East Anglia.
Stimulated by a comfort diet of Anadin and original Lucozade, I managed to all but crawl onto the 9-15 out of Milton Keynes Central; Planet Inebriation's early morning brunch was vigilantly side-stepped.¤ One mouthful of any form of solids would've resulted in carriage E of Virgin Rail's finest being decorated in a subtle form of yellow, amalgamated with insidious carrot chunks.
Regurgitating forty-eight hours worth of unwanted plethora needn't have been instigated by Inebriation Hangoverism's finest brunch though!¤ Old Thomas at the wheel of the decapitated Tank Engine must've been recruited under the sanctimonious sympathy act of 1887: such was his ineptitude behind the wheel, coupled with his ebullient allegiance towards the breaks.
Descending upon Euston, the pit of my stomach was yo-yoing similar to that of the Inflatable Slapstick Jordan, on a bouncy castle, whilst obtaining her hourly shafting. My agony was compounded knowing that I was still three trains and two hours away from Ipswitch Central.
Instead of wallowing in that legendary, self-created Evertonian disease ? self pity, I decided to muscle my way through this self-inflicted agony.¤ Purchasing a one-way ticket back to earth would require encountering a vehement initiation ? starting with carefully consuming those
dreaded solids.
Even on Planet Inebriation Hangoverism, an Upper Crust bakery could be found.¤ Before boarding the train at Liverpool Street, my acute deliberation resulted in me resurrecting the moths from the base of my Ben Sherman's, as I anxiously plumped for the tuna melt, at a rip roaring £2.99.
After successfully staying down (an event we all wish that EFC would partake in) I was still only 50% of the way down the long and winding road to safety.¤ Stage two was slightly more alarming simply because I didn't have a ticket in my possession.
Due to the ticket office rejecting my application as the only tickets left available were for seats occupying the family section, not for the first time this season, the hatches had to be battened down, as different horizons were sought.
Steve Horton undertook some stirling efforts, but the tickets he was promised never materialised.¤ Therefore the only option left at my disposal was travelling on the supporters coach, with tickets still very much at a premium.
My impromptu pain was curtailed, 48 hours prior to open season being declared.¤ Knowing that I'd be 'over' self-indulging the night before, I undertook the ostentatious route of booking the train and meeting them outside Portman Road.¤ Risky in the ascendancy that being caught in a melee on the A14 could amount to being jammed stationery for an eternity.¤ For once, the deplorable rail services were more enticing.
Enbleedin'bloodyticing, as they managed to get me to my intended destination on time.¤ Two and three quarter hours: Milton Keynes-Euston: Euston-Moorgate: Moorgate-Liverpool Street: Liverpool Street-Ipswich, whilst inhabiting Planet Inebriation Hangoverism.¤ Asking them to organise a local service between Milton Keynes and Northampton, some twenty miles apart, and they find it more simplistic to 'hard sell' a five speed vibrator to a Nun.
Anyhow, enough digressing and back to reality.¤ Reality that enlightened me to the fact that the floodlights were visible from the front of the station.¤ Even more visible was the coach park, minus the one I was seeking.¤ And even more visible was the public hostelry that also ran along the procession.¤ So close, that it was dotted within firing range, directly across the road.
Aptly titled, the Station House Hotel, in such idyllic surroundings: geographically ideal for the visitors.¤ No surprise then that the usual awayday suspects were congregating by the minute.
With my psyche now returning to its normal resplendent self, my body clock was even inviting me to an emotional reunion with Miss Alcohol, in the shape of a pint of John Smith's.¤ Just as well really because my nerves were shuddering at the thought of standing outside the away turnstile at one minute to three, still minus that treasured piece of gold encrusted paper. Immaculate Pristine Christine from Darlington kept on reminding me every five seconds, knowing that I was easy prey at that precise moment in time.
The next hour and a half witnessed me wasting time by enveloping the car park; anxiously pacing across the road to the ground and studying the surroundings that amounted to Ipswich.¤ A very nondescript town, minus any visible local livewires ready to pump up the volume.¤ I can only envisage the atmosphere on non-matchdays depicts a filmset from one of those eighties docu-dramas relating to the aftermath of a nuclear war.
There might as well have been a 'post match nuclear coalition' had I been forced to sit this one out.¤ My unblemished record of attending every domestic away game this season was becoming endangered.¤ Such anxieties soon intensified that I desperately made a life-threatening phone call to one of the lads on the coach.¤ Those immortal words, 'we're about ten minutes away' converted me from Suicidal Sid into Vibrant Vince.
Upon the tearjerking exchange, four of us enthusiastically headed back towards the Station House, predicting that the afternoon's main event would amount to nothing more than a low scoring draw.
That was until an event of epic proportions entranced us at around the three o'clock mark.¤ No I'm not referring to the blasphemous minute's silence that we were forced to endure as the latest Disney Character deserted the sinking Royal ship.¤ A much more monumental event was about to cocoon the locals into a trance of insurmountable disbelief.
A nonchalant, mild and sunny winter's afternoon, depicting hope and dreams was substituted by a sea of red mist that had infiltrated Portman Road.¤ Over the past four weeks the good folk of Ipswich had been basking in their private street carnival, paying homage to Mayor Burley for the vigorous efforts he undertook, as once again Ipswich entered more familiar territory.¤ What he didn't prophesise would not only bite him, but also severely injure his disciples.
An indomitable hurricane careered around the leafy suburb of sleepy Suffolk as no prisoners were taken and no fools were gladly suffered.¤ The tidal wave of red literally overpowered the blue Smurfs as an unexpected siege mentality was adopted, as for 90 minutes they were pulverised into submission.
Before we'd even opened the scoring we could have been two goals to the good.¤ The much-maligned Murphy launched an audacious chip that was athletically pushed over the bar by young Marshall. Not to be outshone, the reinvigorated Heksey, tearing around like a Thoroughbred on heat, forced Marshall into earning yet more scraps as he beat away a piercing left-footed drive.
Nothing he could do about the opening strike.¤ The Honey Monster, Xavier, who was marauding down the right flank at an incredible rate of knots, made sure that this hurricane started to crack the strongest resilience.
Simultaneously, those putrid blue noses must've been desperately contacting Securicor, urging them to make some urgent deliveries of those outstanding live bullets that never managed to find their way to Nick Barmby's residence.
I'm also convinced that a certain fanzine editor, from a certain district of Liverpool was being drip fed on triple helpings of humble pie, topped with egg yoke.¤ Ring any bells????? (not sure who you mean, but I've always been a huge fan of Abel's so you must be thinking of someone else! - Dave)
The catalyst was well and truly lit and from there on in, lives were destroyed in abundance.¤ A compelling exhibition of flowing passing, movement: passing, movement: passing, movement left all concerned hyperventilating.¤ The hurricane was sending the Richter Scale scaling towards unprecedented levels.
Chief tormentor Gerrard was directing the commotion from the heart of the midfield.¤ Boxing cleverly, floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee, diligently probing, before inflicting the killer blow.¤ An earth shattering through ball, beautifully bisected the home defence, to allow the reinvigorated Emile to surreptitiously add another to his new found collection.¤ Like a virile sex-starved adolescent, all of a sudden he cannot stop scoring.
With fellow Ghostbuster-in-chief, General Hamann, keeping things sweetly ticking over, the locals not only couldn't hide, they couldn't even run.
Even during the half time interval there was no relenting.¤ The hurricane's chief protagonists, situated in the away enclosure, had been eloquently singing from the same song sheets right from the introduction, and the crescendo had now reached fever pitch.
Throughout the second half, all their great icons were getting an airing.¤ From Abel-Emile: Young Michael-John Arne: Super Dan-Sami.¤ Even Didi and Stephane found their long overdue shouts reverberating around Portman Road.¤ The latter even managing to sneak in on the act by crossing the halfway line, without issuing any signs of a nose bleed.
Our icons in red reciprocated by starting what they'd finished.¤ Any thoughts that the driving force would peter into a light southerly breeze were laid to rest as inspirational Sami made it three, direct from one of Super Dan's arrowed missiles.
Not to be outshone, the bastion of potency added to the Portman Road's inhabitants misery by adding strikes four and five.¤ The Richter Scale had now reached overkill.¤ Andy Marshall was recalcitrant, his demeanour exemplary.¤ Single-handedly, he prevented further damage with a string of first-class saves.
Even deep into the 90th minute, a going away present was sought.¤ Monsieur Anelka, who'd looked radiant upon entering the fray, laid one into the virile Thoroughbred's path as shag number five within the last three outings was signed, sealed and delivered.
Come 4-45, the local's misery was extinguished.¤ Trained counsellors, charity organisations and the Red Cross were on hand as vein attempts were undertaken to help rebuild shattered lives. Ones thoughts reached out to the home support.¤ Incredulous at the best of times, the vast majority slugged it out until the end, even reluctantly appreciating such a contemptuous grilling of their heroes.¤
So impressive that not once did they 'regale us' with renditions of 'sign on', etc.¤ Dignity does still exist in the devouring world of Premiership football, as we know it!
Stalled in our own shell-shocked bodies, the halfway house between Portman Road and Ipswich Central, was the order of the day.¤ I can safely say that I can use the fingers on one hand the amount of times the ball was aimlessly hurled into thin air.¤ Cause for a few beverages and another one way ticket to Planet Inebriation Hangoverism ? this time with the best of intentions.
Obviously one is very much hoping that this is a sign of things to come.¤ Our goal difference has been reduced dramatically within the last couple of outings.¤ More goals are imperative because they could be a defining factor come Groundhog Day.
TEAM: Jerzy Dudek (Pegguy Arphexad); Abel Xavier, Stephane Henchoz, Sami Hyypia, Stephen Wright; Danny Murphy, Steven Gerrard (Gary McAllister), Didi Hamann, John Arne Riise (Nicolas Anelka); Michael Owen, Emile Heskey:
