The night you returned home.

Bloody Jake Bugg.

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.

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.” 

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. That chart-topper, (you must have heard it right?) was released in summer 2019, nearly two years ago. 

The sulky, blue-steel pose of Bugg is obviously an attempt to follow the ‘grumpy looks cool’ 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. 

Depending on what toilet you head in to, Bugg’s poster is occasionally dispersed by frequent advertisements to the Cheltenham festival, detailing how you could be “one of the lucky guests” 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.

March 7, 4.45pm, 2020.

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.

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.

Next to my friend’s right are two fathers and their sons. Lovely people, apparently. The two gentlemen and their boys – who both unashamedly wear the full replica club kit each week come rain or shine – 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.

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. “For god’s sake, wake up and get the ball bloody forward!” he shouts.

My friend says they don’t 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 some of the tripe this side often serves up?

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’s almost certainly seen better days. It is a little embarrassing he doesn’t 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.

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Its been 437 days since that 1-0 defeat to Newcastle. It has been well over a year since my friend last walked arm in arm with his nan up those Block 31 steps. It didn’t matter if the team had lost the last game or if that ‘bloody French bloke’ scored against them again, they always had the undercurrent of excitement and as inane as it sounds, pleasure. They were their seats. Together, as a family.

Its been 437 days since my friend lifted his wilted head to tell Dave he’ll see him ‘next week.’ None of us knew that 11 days later, we would be confined to the four walls of our house, with Boris Johnson’s hokey-coney lockdowns and Jonathan Van Tam’s football analogies providing the constant ambience to our daily routines.

The opposing goalkeeper couldn’t hear you call him a fat bastard, nor can the referee realise that he is, indeed, a wanker. Yes, I still attended games – I’m extremely lucky to be working as a journalist – but it was not the same. That poster of bloody Jake Bugg told me as much.

My friend longed for the day when he traipsed home from a game and the smell of chip fat and spilt beers wafted through the winterly nostrils. Or when the bus driver – he still cannot drive – takes a look at his nan’s striped shirt and says, “I won’t ask about the score,” fully well knowing Southampton have been on the end of another pummelling.

Taking that same route to the stadium, past the murals of Markhus Liebherr or walking up that rather steep train station hill. Finding that space in your usual car parking spot, or walking past the scarf-man selling those half and half fabric pieces of “memorabilia” – we all took it for granted.

On Tuesday evening, everything we missed came back. Supporters got their Southampton back. In many ways, my friend got his nan back.

For the last year, due to the very little else I have had going on in my life, I tended to arrive at St Mary’s very early. This usually resulted in parking in the industrial estate while I waited for entry. I had the pick of the estate, parking here there and everywhere. Nothing was out of bounds. The estate, usually so full of life and workers, had become sad with silence.

Not anymore.

Last night there was such a shortfall of options, I was forced to put my mediocre driving skills to the test and parallel park. The estate was crammed with cars and fans pacing up and down, trying to shake off those feelings of butterflies and excited anticipation.

200 yards north was St Mary’s and its tannoys cranked up to full volume. All the classics came back out, Queen, Status Quo, Elvis – you name it. Inside the stadium, the noise was interrupted by regular bouts of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” of course, sped up and slowed down in rhythm for added effect.

Around the perimeter of the ground, stewards were on mass, pacing up and down, actually doing the job they are paid to do. This is no slight on stewards, they have been extremely warming during fan-less games, but there is something sad about a steward’s remit being solely to keep members of the media out of the red zone. As the minutes ticked closer to kick-off, the fretting of the stewards grew. There was mini-crises, worrying about which gate was which and whether it was indeed the yellow or orange gate the members of hospitality were entering.

The ladies in red returned to welcoming the guests in the hospitality suite, clad in red and polite and charming. They were all smiles and a reflection of tranquility despite the pandemonium that was encompassing them. To the left of the ladies were the stewards and the turnstiles, brimming with activity and the hustle and bustle of a proper matchday.

The Saints Brass band were back and were seen carrying their large instruments across the front of the ladies and to the right of the stewards. You know in those films when everything seems to be going on at once and yet everything appears to be from different worlds? Try being in the Itchen on Tuesday night. 

Heading into the turnstiles, Jake Bugg wasn’t the only person to look at me. There were staff at the hot food counters, unwrapping, rewrapping, unfurling and handling all sorts of things. In small red ink was the price of sausage rolls, obviously astronomical in pricing in relation to wider society but reasonable when visiting football stadia. Just below on the list was vegan sausage rolls, of which the hot food counter now served (very woke, I know). Before I could even comprehend the fact they were able to do an actual sausage without any meat, I took a look at the price of a hot dog. £4.70. Unless it is coming cloaked in gold and has tickets to my own mansion in it, that pricing was ludicrous.

But there they were. Fans routinely paying for the phoney sausage in a bun or getting their hands on their preference of sausage roll. They knew the prices were extortionate, but they didn’t mind that night. It was the first sign of returning to normality, returning home.  

I’m big enough and ugly enough to admit that when the singing got louder as kick-off approached, a small little puddle began to convene in one (just one) of my eyes. Good job for masks, eh. 

The game itself followed the narrative fans have seen before and all too regularly, either from their television sets or in person. The 8000 supporters watched on as Southampton started brightly, with everything seeming in good working order.

Leeds, a team that thrives on chaos and who scoff at the thought of playing anything else but whirlwind freewheeling stuff, so much so that they make a Brazilian carnival look monotonous, appeared shaken from the first whistle. Their pressing was failing them and were faltering under Southampton’s intensive traps.

A teenager in front of me, no older than 17, breathed in every single moment of coming home. The absence must have been unbearable as from the very first whistle he was shouting, clapping and jumping off his seat with every little glimmer of hope.

The teenager was donned in this year’s away shirt, with a club hoodie underneath. His watch was red and white, perfectly matching a scarf which was unusually distorted in size. He and his dad, who himself wore the classic yellow 76′ shirt, got so excited that at one point they threw a little first pump after Southampton won a throw just over the halfway line.

This is the essence of unrestained unbridled joy. The teenager might not be particular loud or extroverted away from St Mary’s, but this was his place of escapism, a place he’s been longing to come back home to.

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As the second half wore on and Leeds reverted back to their usual juggernaut ways, Southampton couldn’t keep up. The naivety was being felt in the stands and being played out on the pitch. It is an area Ralph Hasenhuttl must address next season.

But let’s be honest. Did the scoreline really matter? Supporters got their Southampton back. The absence of you had been too much. They laughed, shouted, moaned and swore. In other words, they felt everything they were expected to feel. Like a jilted lover, our relationship with football endured over a period of prolonged pain and wretched fortune. But it wasn’t the same.

It is now.

 

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