Since I have good friends who support the former and I live in the latter I felt some kind of moral, or perhaps social, obligation to attend the above event.

I started badly, making what is probably the classic mistake of sitting down one end.  This of course meant that ninety percent of the action took place all the way down the other end, obliging me to strain my neck in an unnatural manner.

There was a little cheer and a lot of matey kicking around at the beginning, which meant that I actually missed the start of play.  But not to worry, I soon got the idea.  Most people there wanted the white ones to win, whereas I, and few outnumbered locals, were on the side of the blue ones, distinguished by the name of a San Pedro driving school written on their bottoms.

I don’t remember a great deal about the first half, but I was told it was not really very good anyway.  Part of my excuse was that I was periodically passed a mobile phone in the blind belief that I was capable of directing lost Torry supporters to the ground.  Well I did my best, even with the ones who said:  “We’re in some sort of residential area.”   “Well, tell me what you can see”.  “Nothing, just a lot of houses.”   The edge of hysteria to this conversation, I later discovered when they miraculously arrived, was because this was the FC Torrevieja medical team, presumably fearing some spilling of blood in their absence.  They need not have worried, the only out-pouring I witnessed was the huffing and puffing produced by injured Latin male egos, interspersed with the sort of language you don’t usual come across in Spanish phrasebooks.

The second half was more exciting.  The ball got whacked a whole lot higher and every five minutes or so actually disappeared over the walls of the ground, to land on some poor unsuspecting passer-by.   At least, it might well have done, although when we left I saw no sign of any flattened toddlers or small dogs.  As the balls bounced out of the ground, other balls got thrown back in, which at times got very confusing.  Sometimes there were no balls on the field, and at other times there were two.

Well, in the last fifteen minutes FC Torrevieja scored three times, way down there in the distance, and those fans who had actually found the ground duly rejoiced.  Meanwhile, my boredom, which was never too far away, was relieved by some of San Pedro’s substitute players right in front of me who were indulging in some Cleese-like silly walks and trying very hard to split their shorts by placing one leg as high as they could against a wall.  If they didn’t like the driving school, they should have just said so.   They looked more and more depressed as it became apparent that their manager had forgotten they existed.

After what seemed like an eternity, the referee blew the final whistle, and for all the cheers and shouting, nobody rejoiced more than my buttocks.

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