London, 21 August, 2009
Off, then, to deepest, darkest South London, where the streets are no strangers to litter and where you wish for a moment those odd, elderly women whose names escape me would do a How Clean Is Your Suburb? programme. It's the condoms that get me: what kind of social interaction has gone on where someone buys a condom, unwraps it but doesn't use it and then throws it on Norwood High Street (I might be in South Norwood, West Norwood, Norwood Junction or Norwood International for all I know or care)? There are some mysteries I'll never solve.
Anyway, for reasons to Stygian to detail, I'm off to Crystal Palace for their game with Newcastle United. Selhurst Park is just the wrong side of ramshackle always the sign of a club who know they won't be ascending in the near future, assuming they haven't spent it on players, which Palace clearly haven't.
The press box isn't up to much either. I remember owner Simon Jordan saying this was why journalists hate Palace, but I don't know any who do, even the ones who were summoned to Iain Dowie's 8am press conferences. Last year they had wi-fi, but that's gone now. Cheers.
Downstairs, heroically awful tea and sandwiches I wouldn't touch with someone else's bargepole are served by an eccentric cast of mature people, who neither smile nor answer when I say "good afternoon". This is the sort of battle I'm up for. I don't win it this afternoon but if I'm here more often (please, no) they'll succumb.
I can't see one of the goals and I'm sandwiched between two Newcastle hacks. There aren't enough plugs, but - hey! - I've got a three way adaptor. Do I get a thanks? A smile? An information-sharing chat? I do not, but they do lean behind me to have a chat. Nice guys and so socially skilled. When Ian Ridley from the Mail On Sunday comes over (not, it must be noted, over them) to have a chat I'm childishly grateful.
The game itself is straight-forwards. Newcastle are two ahead early on and never look back. Already weary and wholly unable to deal with Shola Ameobi, Palace look resigned to their fate. I'm sure if they spruced up their ground it would help, but, hey what do I know?
Afterwards, Neil Warnock explains how pleased he is with everything and you really wonder how much he believes it. Unless a club out west comes calling, this will surely be his last job.
Meanwhile, I thought I'd like Chris Hughton and I do. He's got the rabble of last year playing for him and for each other, which is a huge achievement. Unless I'm horribly mistaken, he's a straight arrow and since Joe Kinnear's health and Alan Shearer's ability precludes them and the suggestion of David O'Leary must be a joke, surely Hughton deserves a crack at it. He may not be a big name, he may not be sexy and he may not attract galacticos, but he's just the man to eke three points from a visit to Glanford Park. and Selhurst Park too...