Ellafella

All that i remember apart from getting pictures done with Craig Short, Paul Simpson, Tommy and Marco is the ironic: "Kitson, what's the scores", chant. For the life of me, i cant remember the game, but it was 3-1 to the rams.
Edit:
Also being taken to the front to watch games by fellow Rams as i was a wee short kid and couldn't see anything.

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

Defoe sticks the ball in the net. 1:0 England. Hoddle "Gareth Southgate was quite right in bringing Defoe back...he's a proven scorer at this level". 
 Please spare me. 

The guy who does the voiceover for X Factor and the Money Supermarket adverts. Nails on a chalkboard.
Also James Cordon, and anyone who thinks watching him and someone famous sing in a car is anything other than a complete waste of time.

Defoe sticks the ball in the net. 1:0 England. Hoddle "Gareth Southgate was quite right in bringing Defoe back...he's a proven scorer at this level". 
 Please spare me. 

Glen and God on the same programme .. He must have been over the moon, did God agree with him or was it frosty looks as in a kind of ...God gives Glen a Roy Keane stare ?
 

Is it possible to get any more ANODYNE than Mark Pougatch, ITV, Lee Dixon, Ryan effing Giggs, Gareth Southgate, and Ian Wright and ANODYNE England V Lithuania in a Feck me, World Cup qualifier. The World Cup is next year. Really?! And an in-depth interview with Hart, the most Anoydyne goalkeeper on Planet Earth. 
 
Oh my God and Glen Hoddle...arrggghhh!

I tend to find 8 cans of Stella, a bottle of Buckfast and a scowl is accepted as reservation enough.

Is it possible to get any more ANODYNE than Mark Pougatch, ITV, Lee Dixon, Ryan effing Giggs, Gareth Southgate, and Ian Wright and ANODYNE England V Lithuania in a Feck me, World Cup qualifier. The World Cup is next year. Really?! And an in-depth interview with Hart, the most Anoydyne goalkeeper on Planet Earth. 
 
Oh my God and Glen Hoddle...arrggghhh!

Is it possible to get any more ANODYNE than Mark Pougatch, ITV, Lee Dixon, Ryan effing Giggs, Gareth Southgate, and Ian Wright and ANODYNE England V Lithuania in a Feck me, World Cup qualifier. The World Cup is next year. Really?! And an in-depth interview with Hart, the most Anoydyne goalkeeper on Planet Earth. 
 
Oh my God and Glen Hoddle...arrggghhh!

It's on silent..

Is it possible to get any more ANODYNE than Mark Pougatch, ITV, Lee Dixon, Ryan effing Giggs, Gareth Southgate, and Ian Wright and ANODYNE England V Lithuania in a Feck me, World Cup qualifier. The World Cup is next year. Really?! And an in-depth interview with Hart, the most Anoydyne goalkeeper on Planet Earth. 
 
Oh my God and Glen Hoddle...arrggghhh!

Flags or no flags. From a relative outsider looking in, Derby are in a much healthier position both on and off the field to achieve future success than Forest are.
You can go on about winning the European cup an age ago but it's the here and now that counts and right now, derby have more fans than forest, more prospects than forest and whilst I'm at it.......
more flags than forest.
We know it and ask at random any football fan across the divisions who is best placed to get success in the future and they all know it too.
This is nothing to do with jealousy or even rivalry.
More do to with reality.
Great work from you flag guys and thanks for your efforts.

Tons of flags tomorrow. More than you can shake a stick at. ?

Tons of flags tomorrow. More than you can shake a stick at. ?