Before we begin, I must confess I do not have anything against the singer, nor do I particularly dislike his music. The problem, however, was that he started to become a picture of uneasy familiarity to me. His face a constant reminder of what we had, and what we lost. <\/span><\/p>\n For the past year, I have walked into the St Mary’s toilets, through those big red doors and admittedly sometimes coming in from the wrong way. But there has been no bloke who arrived early for his pre-match pint leaning against the walls telling me “there’s a clear no entry sign, mate.”\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Bloody Jake Bugg. The toilets are full of half a dozen posters of the singer, plastered over the white washed walls and all with the same facial expression of Bugg seemingly meeting your gaze wherever you go. The poster tells you he has a ‘new’ single out called Kiss like the Sun.\u00a0<\/em>That chart-topper, (you must have heard it right?) was released in summer 2019, nearly two years ago.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n The sulky, blue-steel pose of Bugg is obviously an attempt to follow the \u2018grumpy looks cool\u2019 trend or appear one of those deep, profound singer songwriters who often tells you they “sing from the heart.” Over the winter months last year, I began to find the intent stare becoming a little more disconcerting, especially when my 6ft 1in frame means I meet his stare at eye level. When you’re trying to spend a penny, it can be rather off putting.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Depending on what toilet you head in to, Bugg\u2019s poster is occasionally dispersed by frequent advertisements to the Cheltenham festival, detailing how you could be \u201cone of the lucky guests\u201d to claim four free tickets to the race days. The small issue being those tickets were meant for the 10th to 13th of March… 2020.<\/span><\/p>\n March 7, 4.45pm, 2020.<\/em><\/p>\n Sat in the media area, situated high in the nub of the Itchen, I swivelled my head to the left. A friend of mine was sat in the Chapel, but remained entrenched in his chair. Over the course of 90 minutes, his posture slowly decomposed, up until he had almost sunken ground level. Some French winger with bleached blonde locks had scored the winner against his club. “Fucking shit”, were the two sole words I received from his text message.<\/p>\n Meanwhile, Dave, the man who sits in front of him, is a schoolteacher. My friend says he’s cordial enough before the first whistle. Dave is the only person my friend knows by name within their mini-enclosure of St Mary’s. Blocks 31 and 32, just left of centre on the byline. My friend says his grandad hates the seats, “the only view that’s worse than having a seat in the turnstiles,” he says.<\/p>\n Next to my friend’s right are two fathers and their sons. Lovely people, apparently. The two gentlemen and their boys \u2013 who both unashamedly wear the full replica club kit each week come rain or shine \u2013 always ask my friend for the score prediction. Secretly, I think they take pleasure out of my friend’s negativity. Whenever he almost indefinitely picks Southampton to lose, regardless of the opposition, it feels as if the fathers have garnered a little sense of schadenfreude.<\/p>\n Below them is a man and his wife, both with detectable Millbrook accents and seem decent enough. The husband has this great booming voice that can be heard permeating its way across the ground. \u201cFor god\u2019s sake, wake up and get the ball bloody forward!” he shouts.<\/p>\n My friend says they don\u2019t hang around much after full-time. They are always the first to get up and make a dash for it. My friend once told me he ‘ain’t surprised’ they leave early so often. Who could blame them after witnessing\u00a0some of the tripe this side often serves up?<\/p>\n Despite never having so much of a smatter of small talk with the pair, they habitually offer my friend hot chocolate, poured from their silvery, pretty compact flask, drawn out of this tatty red and white bag that\u2019s almost certainly seen better days. It is a little embarrassing he doesn\u2019t know their names, bearing in mind he spends two hours with them at least 20 times a year, either shouting, moaning or if James Ward-Prowse produces a trademark free-kick, with the curling elegance of a pointed ballerina, hugging them.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/prostinternational.comwp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/IMG_0193.jpeg\")
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