Watford Museum presents...

Follow the Yellow Brick Road: Memories:

The mad dash

By Michael Peter

When University called in September 2005, I moved up to Aberystwyth. I still come down for a fair number of games, but obviously no longer with my Dad, who has been my match-day companion ever since he took me to my first game in 1994.

But for eight years our trips to games were magnificent affairs, involving all sorts of drama and stress. Much of which was my fault, I freely admit. I was never the most helpful of teenagers, so our start was always delayed by my inability to do the lunch or find the coats. Even when I was sat in the car I would forget something - a book, generally - and rush back into the house. Dad, for his part, would have to check the house was locked approximately three times before we could leave.

When we set off we were at the mercy of the roads. New Forest to Watford takes 1 hour and 40 minutes on a good day, and we rarely left more than that due to my haphazard preparation. Often we were thwarted by a tail-back of tourists in Lyndhurst, barely 10 miles from our start point. For a while the M25 widening was our enemy, as were squeezed into one impossibly small lane. For one particularly memorable autumn there was road-works in Rickmansworth that made Dad utter words I've never heard him say outside of a Seat Ibiza. "If we miss a goal..." he'd mutter and he often threatened to turn back, even though we were a mere ten minutes from the ground. I, for my part, would fall asleep or bury myself in some reading material. What could I say to appease him? I knew how important it was.

We'd generally arrive in West Watford at 2:53, and search for a parking spot, a situation that's been made far more difficult now the council has banned people from parking on the grass, I can tell you. Quickly bundling on our coats, we'd half-jog, half speed-walk. Occasionally Dad would ask me if I wanted to run ahead - a moral dilemma, for leaving Dad, who's driven all the way, would be extremely unfair. Furthermore, whilst I'm fitter than him, the prospect of running is a horrifying prospect for a person with my stamina. But then again, if I missed a goal...

Entering the stadium through empty turnstiles, we'd hurry along the concourse, choosing the stairs that would lead to the more amiable side of our row and no disapproving murmurs. Landing breathlessly in our seats, we'd survey the pitch and be told, as it always is with Watford, "nothing's happened so far."

Nowadays I arrive several hours ahead of kick-off, and the mad dash is no longer part of the match day routine. Dad arrives on time, I hear, free from having to drag me out of bed on Saturday mornings. Still, I look forward to the Easter holidays, when I can be late again.

Added to the exhibition on 16/01/2006