“Wemble-e-e-e-e-y-y-y-y!!!”

Following insulting accusations against his fellow team members from the Far from the MCC, Steve Dobner organised a Saturday day out to Wembley to see if he could lure his mates away from their comfortable and idyllic existence within leafy Oxfordshire. As a season ticket holder with Saracens Rugby Club, our Essex Homeboy was able to procure a bunch for the day for as little as a tenner, and thus present an invitation to his spiritual homeland that the gentlemen of The Mad would find hard to refuse.

You really couldn’t have scripted it, but just a week prior to the Wembley trip itself, a giant ash cloud billowing out of an Icelandic volcano and put paid to Steve’s hopes of actually making it to his own “social” day out. All flights were grounded, the skies were free of contrails, and Mr. Dobner was stuck in Tenerife with the kids and a ball and chain….

Not to be deterred, and based on the knowledge that Essex counterpart, Mr. G. Littlechild was in receipt of the tickets, a reduced number of MAD set off for London on a “great day out” or at least that was the intention after assembling at the Angel & Greyhound pub at midday. Beautiful weather, sunshine, Oxford eye-candy and the absence of any parental supervision unfortunately threw a branch in the spokes….

Ian Leggate was of course running late, as to be expected, and despite several phone calls and texts to “get a fucking move on”, it was actually nearer to 3pm when the Oxford Tube containing our small ramshackle posse finally left St. Clements….

Ian Howarth (left) never did like Dave “Eurhythmic” Stewart’s music.

Hillingdon tube station provided the destination before the destination, but alas offered up a new distraction. The Swallow pub sat atop of the train line, and as such our adventurers were keen to inspect the plastic furniture inside; ingratiating themselves with the toothless, power-drinking locals and sampling the brew. A few extra points were gained in the CAMRA handbook for basic seating outside, and the sweeping panoramic view of a rat infested timber yard….

On arrival at Wembley [finally], contact with an overly anxious Mr. Littlechild was established, and after gorging themselves on overpriced hot dogs and burgers on the main approach, the Oxford contingent met up with their exasperated Essex counterpart outside the main entrance. Assuming all teachers are quite astute, it would have taken Gary about 3 seconds to realise his chums were already wankered….

“Je vous aime mon chéri!”

At a cost of three quarters of a billion pounds, Wembley Stadium really should be a state of the art facility for the 21^st century, and indeed, the view from the seated terraces to the pitch is excellent. What is less so, is the abhorrent watered down beer at £4 a plastic cup, the tasteless onion-bereft burgers at a similar price, and the woefully inadequate toilet facilities [and draconian security presence]….

Still, you’re here for the spectacle right? Well, despite a pudding of a pitch, it did little to detract from an excellent Saracens performance, where they humped a poor Harlequins team to the tune of 37 points to 18. The game flew by, literally, most probably due to the inebriation; but one does remember Mr. Emerson throwing his beer over everyone during a Mexican Wave that rolled around the vast arena. Ooh, how we laughed!

Cotton and nylon are waterproof apparently….

After the game, we thanked Gary for all his efforts in being the adopted adult for the day, and then proceeded to get caught in the squash of human traffic leaving the stadium. Amidst the cacophony and blur of colour, some of the guys could be found running through the new water fountain displays outside…. Pneumonia soon set in as the sun disappeared from view, and the new objective was reuniting with Mr. Smith at The Swallow, who had earlier been cast aside by security staff….

Later, it only took seven or eight attempts to eventually catch a coach back to Oxford. In this time, there was ample opportunity to empty the water out of Dave’s mobile phone, and for Mr. Leggate to regale stories from of a match he simply couldn’t remember….

Postcard as taken by PC Plod (with helmet between his legs).

After saluting a line of Sambuca’s and toasting to a hedonistic day out, I left the guys at the Cape of Good Hope in Oxford and headed for home. It now dawned on me why the Skipper of The MAD, Mr. Westmoreland, had had second thoughts about the day, especially since he already had two children and a wife to look after….

‘Participant’