We score and I spill along the aisle, punching the air again
and again, my voice hoarse as I try to raise it above the crowd. I needed that.
Coming to my senses I shrink sheepishly back to my seat, knowing that I overdid
it slightly. “You know it’s only MK Dons yeah mate?”
It’s weird though. Even when they equalise, there’s no
hatred. We try to wind them up, but we can’t. What’s the fun when no one fights
back? The only one giving us anything, standing up with a goading grin, the
only one who isn’t sat down sharing a packet of pick and mix with their kids? He
actually turns out to be Chelsea in the home end. He’s escorted up the aisle,
around to join us and our V-signs turn into cheers.
You can’t wind them up, because they just don’t care. We
used to sing “you should have gone to the pictures” at other fans, taking the mickey
out of some hard, loyal fan base like Pompey, belittling their support, making
it out to be something so frivolous that it’s on par with a trip to the cinema
or an afternoon at the shops with the missus. But with MK, that’s exactly the
case. They turn up early and queue outside the club entrance to watch our
superstars get off the coach. A Football League club in their town is the
chance to experience what they’ve seen on telly for real. Clamber for
autographs. Bubbling down and then spiking in a shrieking noise each time as
Fabregas or Oscar or Willian spring off the coach. Boo Costa like a pantomime
villain. Replica shirts for a club that didn’t exist ten years ago and you
wonder who they supported before.
But somehow the day still got me riled up. I write this because
I had a whole tree of celery taken off me at the turnstiles. The steward ums and ahs, mumbling that his pre-match briefing had included something
about celery. When in doubt, call over your Miss Trunchbull of a supervisor. In
the end they take the whole lot. Even the leafy sprig of it tucked boozily
behind my ear.
“Why are you trying to take celery into a football ground
anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
The ordeal puts me in a bad mood, maybe that’s why I cheered
the goal like I did.
As we head back home, singing the celery song that was unfairly
ripped away from me earlier, I almost feel sorry for them. Milton Keynes don’t
have any bizarre rituals. No MK equivalent of celery. They can grasp for an
identity all they want: call one end of their catalogue stadium the Cowshed or cling
to the Dons moniker, but it’s not real. It’s not Chelsea. Maybe it’s because of
the decade we’ve had of being asked where we were when we were sh*t, but Chelsea
crave an identity. There’s a huge desire for a singing Shed, a giant Blue Flag
that says Pride of London on it, CPO shares in abundance and making sure
Chelsea Football Club remains at Stamford Bridge. It’s all part of it. It’s all
tied up in those two words Proper Chels.
More so than missing out on Europe this year, I worry that
we’ll lose what makes Chelsea ours. We might half fill Wembley next year or it
might not happen at all. We might end up in an identikit stadium, faces you don’t
recognise all around you, speakers pumping out music after goals in place of
atmosphere and a team of mercenaries. Players who don’t clap you at the end of
a game will half-heartedly play possession football in a cup game against lower-league
opposition that makes you wonder why you still go. But just as the rest of the
crowd is leaving on 80 minutes, and you’re about to give up hope, a flash of
green will whip through your peripheral vision, and a lump of celery will whistle past your ear.
Whatever happens, we’ll always have celery.
@JJReid13
