Brighton vs Reading: A Girl’s Perspective

Football has long been a male dominated sport but you can say the same with the stereotypical link between shopping and females (and I know plenty of women who can’t stand it). From personal experience, I can understand why football is a man‘thing’…

Even before arriving at the pitch I could sense the male aroma in the air, and I’m not talking about the overpowering smell of Lynx around me.The general atmosphere on the too crowded train, which might as well be rush hour on the Victoria tube line, was exuding testosterone. Travelling from Brighton, the rowdy, and most likely having already been to the pub, Seagull supporters were jeering the usual chants in a bloke-y fashion whilst adorning the blue and white striped scarfs and shirts.

When finally arriving at the stadium and entering through the away gate (my family being the Reading supporters – sorry!) the jeers became louder and the stench of beer and pies hit me hard and fast like a brick wall. Seeing that I was marginally outnumbered, I found a corner where I could sip my drink and observe the chaos that is a Saturday afternoon match.

With away games, you know you’ll only be with the loyal supporters who aren’t afraid to stand up and shout for their team. Chanting and just being a rowdy bunch of men, I not only felt slightly intimidated but also in awe of the excitement and pleasure across their faces at kick-off. Whatever people say about football fans as ‘thugs’ or ‘hooligans’, they really do come together in support of their team.

If you asked a group of men when was their happiest moment, I don’t doubt that at least one will say when their team won a cup. Similarly, when their team scores in an all-important match, everyone just goes wild. Having a couple of thousand fans shouting and cheering alongside you on their happiest moment of that day is like a massive, unexpected endorphin rush sweeping over you.

Along with the highs, comes the lows; I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much swearing in the space of two hours, namely at this particularly useless player and referee (which I totally agreed with). Luckily I had my own commentator beside me, shouting at all the players by name and giving them instructions like a coach, so I kept in the loop for most of it. As it came up to the last few minutes and extra time was called, a resounding murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowds as another goal seemed unlikely.

Then that was it. After six (!) minutes of extra time the whistle blew and the crowds began to disperse to battle through to the trains and buses. Drunken and disappointed chatter filled the queues and train carriages of post-match talk and with a long sigh, I finally made it out and back to female civilisation.

Rhiannon Pulling
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