Not 39 Forever: No.19 - My glittering hoolie career

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August 2008, a Premier League away day at newly promoted Hull. Plenty old faces on display and a reasonably boisterous away support. A 5-0 trouncing of our Humberside hosts but fair play to them they gave their side fantastic support though and followed their team to the end.
Not sure quite sure about the irony of their fans singing 'you're going home to your shithole', have they taken a look around them? Have they ever watched Britain's 10 Worst places to live, a feature in which Hull features regularly?

Yet the best part of the day was to come when making our way out of the ground, where because their fans had stayed to the end, there was potential for it to get nawty, even though the KC Stadium seemed to (sadly) be 99% shirts like everywhere else these days.

Given the hoolie theme above, Me and a mate are walking out the ground in a non jubilant way and this fella starts cruising alongside us in his motorised wheelchair. He looks like an infirm Chubby Brown, a fat bastard in his fifties with XXXXL Hull shirt on and a cap on with about 50 'Ull pin badges. He's muttering away at us whilst veering his wheelchair all over the place.

We can barely hear him, let alone understand his daft accent so we lean over and say 'What's up mate' slightly concerned for his welfare. Next minute he goes for us big style, takes a swing and tries to mow me down.
I still can't tell what he's saying but I'm still giving him the benefit of the doubt and assuming he's just a bit doddery and talking football banter in a gesticulatory manner as his team has just been beaten 5-0 and he is most perturbed.

Then I start to make out the words he is repeating "yoo two are getting picked off in the car park, you're wearing top designer gear, Armani Jeans and Hugo Boss and all that, they'll make mincemeat of you' (Hardly, I've got an Armani trackie top on that is older than most of the Arsenal team but one can only conclude from that this is avant garde to this fella judging by the state of his trainers)

Now I can come up with a million and one retorts to this such as the one above but the deranged bugger is clearly just a bit pissed off that his team has been walloped and whereas you'd question whether he can do much picking off himself, apart from maybe his continual attempts at flattening my feet with his mini Goodyears, I'm feeling a touch uneasy here. He's a middle aged bloke in a wheelchair and he is asking me to engage him in a spot of rough and tumble *whoosh* another flailing arm in my direction. What to do?
What can I do?

I make an executive decision to 'have a minute' and give him a wide berth just in case he decided to do a bit of finger pointing to the local yoofs loitering around. It seems to do the trick and he pisses off.

Done on the first day of the season. Kind of glad we aren't playing Hull next year :-(



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