QPR made it two wins from two trips to the north this week, and five away league wins in a row for the first time since 1929, with a breathless 3-2 victory at Middlesbrough on Wednesday.
And so, finally, at some point between the second reading of the classified football results and Wake Up To Money, three blasts on a whistle that brought it all to a close. Whistles 1,347, 1,348 and 1,349 of an extraordinary evening of football in the Mercantile Credit Trophy.
The curtain call of a performance that took the renaissance of farce theatre, packed it into a rocket-powered clown car and set off for outer space. Exhausted protagonists from both houses slumped to the turf bereft. There were players hugging, dispensing kit into the crowd, dancing, and having asthma attacks. Ilias Chair bounded on from the bench and began mounting the shoulders of the taller players one by one from the air, like an escaped spider monkey. Chris Willock was chasing Seny Dieng around like little boys at their first school disco — TICKLE HIM, TICKLE HIM. One manager beamed from ear to ear. The other erupted into a furious form of whatever you call the one shy of a heart attack and pursued the referee, who’d given his side one penalty, sent an opponent off, and afforded them an extra ten minutes on top of the 90 to have a crack at the reduced numbers. Perhaps he wanted him to start getting his head on a few of their attacking corners as well? The bits of the scenery that weren’t on fire clung to their fixtures by nerve endings. The small section of audience invested in this outcome screamed themselves hoarse in appreciation. Everybody present, whatever part they’d played, looked at everybody else, and everybody else looked right back at them. How on earth had we got here?
Initially, a full Warnock. Middlesbrough had won just two of their final nine fixtures last season, a run that included a defeat here to QPR, as their squad divided equally between injured players making the most of the early pool water in Mykonos, and semi-fit players who wished they’d thought of that first. But, with Sharon giving her blessing to a fourteenth annual "last season in football" for the division’s most decorated boss, plenty fancy Boro for a top six tilt in a weakened league. Headers, tackles, muck, nettles, it’s his kind of club this, if he’s honest, and they’ve spent the summer transfer window preparing a culture shock for Argentinean international Martin Payero, who’s moved across the world from Neil Banfield FC in his homeland to play the smooth-talking negotiator standing between Matt Crooks and Uche Ikpeazu. You’re not in Kansas any more Toto. QPR are fancied as a dark horse too, and won 3-0 at Hull City at the weekend after weathering a second half storm, but initially their poncy little triangles, soft southern pansies and tippy tappy academy boys found themselves caught in a hurricane of Best Bitter.
Seny Dieng was called from his line with the time still being measured in seconds, dropped the ball under pressure, and then regathered on the apex of his penalty box prompting the home crowd to unleash a bilious hail of spite and parmo worthy of a handball appeal carrying far greater merit. By the second minute Jordy De Wijs had gone toe to toe with Ikpeazu and ended the encounter sitting back down on his bottom. If Neil Warnock could grow a striker for his team in a laboratory, he might look and feel a bit like this, and for him to do that to QPR’s ‘enforcer’ in the second minute did not bode well for the rest of the evening. Wasn’t the last time it happened either.
Stefan Johansen caught in possession, thirst for a shout from a teammate unquenched. Jonny Howson, 37 games without a goal, long range speculator off the base of the post. Isiah Jones: rebound kept out through a mixture of keeper glove and goalline clearance. Crooks: tap-in averted by a brilliant last ditch tackle by Yoann Barbet. It was like playing football under a grill. When the corner came over and was nodded back to the far post, Lyndon Dykes was caught slightly asleep and seriously the wrong side of Dael Fry and pulled the centre back’s shirt as he headed wide. Father of the Bride Steve Martin saw enough for a penalty. Ikpeazu converted down the middle. A long evening stretched out ahead of the travellers. They’ve heard about Blockbusters, we’ll need more than that tonight.
Krusty Burglar memes at the ready if this shit continues. To our right, wild eyed Football Manager veteran yet to conquer puberty loudly and aggressively coached Lyndon Dykes what he should be doing from a distance of a quarter of a mile away. He can’t hear you mate, and he’s not a cunt. Thankfully there followed a period of respite in which QPR were able to play some football/remove Boro’s foot from their throat. Lee Wallace and Chris Willock the beating heart of a trademark move down the left which finished with a near post shot on the turn, under pressure, from Dykes which Joe Lumley, in his first appearance against the club that released him in the summer, was incredibly fortunate to keep out having seemingly lost the ball between his arse and his elbow. The goalkeeper then rather more assertive with a firm two-handed parry when Ilias Chair tried his luck from outside the penalty area.
Unfortunately, QPR hamstrung their attempt at a comeback by conceding a succession of dangerous free kicks around their own penalty box, many of which then developed into corners. With Ikpeazu continuing to crawl all over De Wijs — back on his arse after another duel on 34 minutes — this was not a tactic conducive to success in this game. Dickie blocked well as Crooks lined one up from the edge of the box. Dom Ball had to get a big sliding tackle in the area right and did. Grant Hall, willing to put his hand up to play in this game which was jolly good of him, headed wide from a corner. Moses Odubajo was tormented all night by the home team’s electric young winger Isaiah Jones, making just a second senior start, and he was booked for a deliberate hack on him ten before the break. Jones was playing for Queen of the South last season, and Tooting and Mitcham before that - I bet that was fun to watch. Later QPR’s new right wing back conceded possession in a lethal spot, with the majority of his team committed the wrong side of the ball, but Ikpeazu ruined the breakaway with a shot straight at Dieng.
There was a second problem — the clock. With each foul, each free kick, each corner, each throw in, came a protracted palaver about exactly who would be restarting the game, when they might trouble themselves to do that, and what ball they’d like to use for it. Foul, whistle, free kick, now what? Well, we don’t have a ball to take it with. Ok, where’s the ball? Well, it’s over there by that steward. Can he not kick it over here for us? He cannot. Is there another one? Yes. Where’s that? It’s over there by that ball boy. Can he not kick it over here for us? He cannot. Maybe a QPR player would like to go and fetch it for us? Ok, there he goes look, good lad. Oh. What? Well I’m afraid this ball is too soft. Is it? Yes, it is. Right then we’ll get you another one. Thanks. Where from? Well, there’s one over there by the Middlesbrough coaching staff. Can they not kick it over here for us? They cannot. Don’t worry, here it comes now. In the fucking post. Right, unwrap that and let’s get on with it. Oh. What? Well I’m afraid this bowl of porridge is too hot. Is it? Yes. Well, is there another bowl of porridge we can fix for you? Probably. And where is that? Over there by that chef. And can he not cook it and bring it over here for you? He cannot.
On the very, very, very seldom occasions the ball came back into play in the final 15 minutes of the first half, it was invariably taken straight back out of it again by a succession of pathetically weak, pedantic, fusspot calls on minor pulling and pushing under crosses by Steve Martin, a referee so desperate for you to know he’s a referee he has a personalised registration plate to that effect — and couldn’t you just tell with his ultra hands-on approach to this? For it all... All the swapping of the free kick takers at the last minute. All the checking of the pressure of the footballs. All the towelling down of the ball and the hands and the boots and the bell ends. All the dummy runs and false starts. All the porridge cooking. All the chair swapping. All the complaints about whether the fucking bed was too fucking hard or too fucking soft or just fucking right, Martin added a single minute to the end of the first half. One minute. That was good for QPR, they were lucky to get there just a goal behind, but it would be an area of interest for the accident investigation team later.
Second half. This is a story of a woman, 50, and a chap in his early forties.
Lovely move down the left, no other word for it. The way this QPR play when they play is really something to behold. Lee Wallace, captain of Glasgow Rangers, crossed hopefully towards Lyndon Dykes. Never mind him, what’s this pillock doing here look? Jonny Howson had his goal after all, thrusting a leg where one was not required, diverting the ball plum into the middle of his own net. Kiss my face. Steady on down with that erection though Heff, because here goes Jones again, and here comes Odubajo once more with a silly foul and obvious yellow card, and here we are halfway through a mass wanker gesture to the home end now left to take in the news that QPR were level, but also down to ten men. Three minutes into episode two, the narrative had moved on significantly.
Osman Kakay was summoned, and did a sterling job in the area of the field Rangers had struggled most in. But if you thought that was Warbs Warburton closing the apothecary early think again. One of the more admirable qualities of his ethos and this team’s style is the way they’re able to continue to compete and threaten effectively even after a sending off. The tactical execution of what came next was immaculate. This is a well coached side, with outstanding individuals. Johansen good. Willock better. Feel the silk of this chipped through ball, admire the firmness of Dykes’ strike, let the warm nostalgia of Lumley’s botched save at the near post wash over you. We have, indeed, seen that before. Dykes’ life coach from the first half now launching himself into the air off his seat like an Olympic diver, singing Lyndon’s song as he flew. Two one to the ten. Don’t take your eyes off this one for a second.
Now, isn’t this interesting? QPR, a man down and a goal up, started to run the clock themselves. Dykes rolled around for an imponderable amount of time before Charlie Austin replaced him — breathing difficulties allegedly, though he was dancing with the rest of them at full time. Each of the back three in turn spent time on the floor, an agonising distance from the touchline from a home crowd point of view. Can he not move just three feet over there for whatever meagre treatment is required for this obviously non-existent knock? He cannot. And this is fine right? Because I distinctly remember, nary but 20 minutes prior, when none of the stewards, nor the ballboys, nor the Middlesbrough players would fetch the ball, then when it did arrive it required extensive cleaning or re-inflating, and every free kick took so long that you could complete a reasonable oil painting of the crowd scene, that nobody cared. Nobody. Not the Boro players, not the Boro fans, not Neil Warnock, and certainly not referee Steve Martin, who once again, just to repeat, added one minute to that first half.
Now, though, a lot of watch pointing from our referee. A lot of booing and whistling and jeering. A lot of very active ballboys and stewards returning the football into play. Neil Warnock, pantomime routine in full swing, like an angry Toby Jug. Arms round his head, arms in the air, arms spread wide, arms whirling around like the Tasmanian devil. Face turning the colour of the Riverside Stadium seats, accelerating through a concerning crimson into a deep purple. Sometimes he feels like screaming. Queens Park Rangers were out-Warnocking Warnock.
Plot twist. QPR successfully took the ball from Jones. Merciful heavens. It was the first time they’d done so all night, here now in the 71st minute. Osman Kakay, Dom Ball, share a prize from the middle shelf, and just get that ball away up the line while you’re choosing there’s good lads now. Gentle. Ben. No Dom. All the hard work done, all the hard work done literally for the first time in the game, and Ball decided to get clever, over-think, dally on the ball, and give it back to the best Boro player on the pitch. Afforded a second chance he showed superb composure in a pressure situation and cut a cute ball back to Matt Crooks who put his laces through one and sent it arrowing into the top corner of the net from 20 yards. Place was jumping now. Fair play to the good people of Teesside, they’d have heard that one out at sea.
QPR had done a lap of the track. From clinging on by their finger nails just to stay in the game, through considered recovery into equalising and taking the lead, wondering whether they had it within themselves to win the game, now arguably happy with a point if offered and probably lucky to get that. Just you be ready with that holy water though father because Chris Willock, as he’d threatened to do all night, as he’d almost successfully done at the end of a dramatic slalom past four defenders from an earlier throw in, was soon pulling a clever through ball from Johansen out of the air with an immaculate touch that opened up the space for a curled finish into the far corner. Note the fantastic tackle from Osman Kakay on Bola to win the ball back and set the whole thing up in the first place. The away end immediately dissolved into a lawless, joyous, heaving mass of humanity. It was every man for himself up there. Like The Purge, but hornier. Everything that wasn’t strapped in, tied down or fastened to the floor, became airborne immediately. The noise was incredible. Talk to me about "limbs”. Talk to my limbs about the savaging they took from the seat in front, and the seat in front of that one. Looking back from whence I’d fallen, Taxi Joe, scaling a metal catwalk at the back of the stand. He’s a climber Joe - in happy times he seeks higher ground. And these were happy times let me tell you.
These were happy times.
I don't know if I will have the time to write anymore match reports, because I might be too busy trying to participate. From the kick off, literally from the kick off, Willock set off again. Who gave that kid that flamethrower? More importantly, who cares? Skipping and twisting through a now completely shot defence, led pathetically by two of our former charges, he came within one fumbled Joe Lumley save of making it 4-2 within 60 seconds of putting Rangers back in front. Had he done so, we’d still be there now. On the transporter bridge. Going back and forth. In a stolen Winnebago. Surrounded by hookers and blow. Just can’t get enough? You can sing that again. After all that time away, from our team, from our club, from our friends, from our passion, from our reason, now here we were having all of that, in concentrated form, poured straight into our eyes unpasteurised. Eyeball Paul was onto something after all.
I know there are people who say all these things don't happen. And there are people who forget what it's like to be sixteen when they turn seventeen. And know these will all be stories someday. And our pictures will become old photographs. And we'll all become somebody's mom or dad. But right now these moments are not stories. This is happening. I am here and I am looking at her. And she is so beautiful. I can see it. This one moment when you know you're not a sad story. You are alive. And you stand up and see the lights on buildings. And everything that makes you wonder. When you were listening to that song. On that drive. With the people you love most in this world. And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite.
Steady on there Charlie. How are you all out there? Ok? Quarter of an hour to go, two through the door now, dynamic of this ridiculous episode shifting once more. Kat is back. I thought she was already back? Three two QPR, ten men on the field. Two from the top and any four of your choice please Rachel. For a time, rather too much offside appeal, rather too little defending. Dieng bailed his side out with a big brave save at the near post after the trap had failed to snare a prey — brilliant to hold his ground in the centre of the goal as the low cross fizzed in, allowing him to get back to his right and not be too committed to his left. Stand up Seny, everybody look at Seny. An elastic stop from Crooks on 89 was all for the cameras, he’d been flagged on this occasion. QPR couldn’t make the ball stick, Austin looked heavy and laboured, his "head clash” with Grant Hall thankfully seen and judged as that by the referee, preventing retrospective action, when all the replays suggested he’d deliberately stuck the nut on him. Not helpful Charles. Warnock now so desperate he hauled Chuba Akpom in from the cold and he hit the deck for a weak penalty appeal having got the wrong side of Barbet.
And the timewasting. The timewasting. Shameless. Flagrant. But fine right? Because… the Goldilocks bit we did? Remember that? Warnock didn’t care, Martin didn’t care, all of that?
It was... the farthest thing from fine. Ten added minutes. Ten.
And here’s where I’m going to tee off a little bit. Knuckle crack. Because if you look at the penalty incident, and you see Dykes the wrong side of his man and panicking at his mistake and reaching out for the shirt, you think it’s a penalty. Because it is. Great, give all of those, all of the time. Matt Smith will become one of the five richest kings of Europe, but that’s ok, Matt’s a nice boy. You look at the two silly Odubajo tackles, against a winger who’d beaten him all ends up all night, and you cannot possibly argue it’s not a red card. It’s a red card. But as this game accelerated towards madness, so referee Martin tied himself in knots with his inconsistency and lost control of the thing. Having awarded the penalty for the shirt pull, he immediately painted himself into a corner whereby a free kick had to be awarded at every set piece delivered into the box — because that shit goes on everywhere, every week. Having done worse than nothing about Middlesbrough’s time wasting in the first half, adding one minute, he then added ten to the second, and booked Stefan Johansen for kicking the ball away into the bargain. Stefan Johansen did kick the ball away, it was a yellow card, his game smarts in the closing stages here exactly the sort of shithousery we’ve long missed, but you can’t show him it, and not give Crooks or McNair the same in the last ten minutes of the first half for doing the same. You can't make it clear you don't care about time wasting or stoppage time when the home team is winning, only to suddenly clamp down on it all because the away team leads. You can’t go around awarding free kicks for somebody farting in the vague vicinity of Uche Ikpeazu’s mother, and then from a distance of five yards away start waving play on and making a ball motion with your hands when Jones cracks right through the back of Rob Dickie’s ankles to deliberately and cynically stop a huge four v four counter attack breakaway — that decision so egregiously wrong that an assistant referee ten times the distance away got in his ear and told him to stop being such a contrary arsehole. Free kick and yellow card belatedly dished out. It cannot be one, and not the other. It cannot, eight minutes into this impromptu evening session you’ve tagged on, be a corner when it’s clearly been toed out for a goal kick. When it is, that’s a game not being refereed fairly, and this one wasn’t, whatever Charlie Austin did, and whatever Purple Ronnie on the touchline may have been yawping.
Ten minutes then. Jimmy Dunne was on at this point, which was good. Lee Wallace, exceptional, was off, clutching a hamstring. Very bad. The first thing Dunne did, cold from the bench, was win two headers. The second thing he did was a big, thick, meaty tackle at the near post to maintain the slender advantage. Welcome to the first ever LFW grade out of ten for a player brought on after the eightieth minute. He was great.
I thought we’d lost, I thought we’d won, I thought we’d drawn and I’d have been happy with it, I thought lost again, I thought we’d won again, and I thought we’d drawn and I’d have been miserable about it. I went from feeling I was wasting my life, to being certain there is nowhere I’d rather be on earth, in the space of about seven minutes. I went from begging the clock to slow down, to spending seven months looking at it stuck on 68 minutes. I’d have paid you to rid me of those ten added minutes. Name a price, I’ll do you a bank transfer. We’d been there two hours, 101 minutes of it football. Less final whistle, more mercy killing. Less celebration, more outpouring of relief.
Having prayed so desperately for it to end, I now grieve for its loss. I could have watched this for days.
Game three.
Would recommend.
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Boro: Lumley 4; Dijksteel 6, Hall 5, Fry 6, Bola 6; Howson 5, McNair 6; Spence 6 (Payero 86, -), Crooks 7, Jones 8; Ikpeazu 7 (Akpom 71, 5)
Subs not used: Morsy, Peltier, Bamba, Daniels. Coburn
Goals: Ikpeazu 7 (penalty, won Fry), Crooks 72 (assisted Jones)
Bookings: Jones 54 (foul), Payero 90+8 (foul)
QPR: Dieng 7; Odubajo 4, Dickie 7, De Wijs 7, Barbet 7, Wallace 7 (Dunne 86, 7*); Ball 6, Johansen 7, Chair 6 (Kakay 58, 7); Dykes 6 (Austin 68, 5), Willock 8
Subs not used: Archer, Thomas, Dozzell, Adomah
Goals: Howson og 48 (assisted Wallace), Dykes 56 (assisted Willock), Willock 76 (assisted Johansen)
Red Cards: Odubajo 50 (two yellows)
Bookings: Odubajo 38 (foul), Odubajo 50 (foul), Johansen 90+3 (time wasting)
QPR Star Man — Chrissy Willock 8 What have we got ourselves into here?
Referee — Steve Martin (Beverley Hills) 5 Decent filmography though.
Attendance — 22,436 (440 QPR) Fair fucks to Boro, taking an identikit new stadium far too big for their Championship needs and making a real concerted effort for it not to turn into the silent, empty vessels with less atmosphere than the moon that have come to proliferate English football. The noise and celebrations when they scored, even a penalty, was out of the ordinary in the modern game and with a very creditable, and extremely noisy, travelling support going all that way for a midweek the atmosphere matched the rich feast of Championship football served up before us, ebbing and flowing and driving the relentless pace of the game. I like Middlesbrough, I like the club and the chairman and the fans and the manager. I like the pub and the people we meet up there, knowledgeable about their football and always keen to talk to us about how our team is getting on. There aren’t the delusions of grandeur and hangers on that can afflict some of their neighbours. And we win here every year.
* - Ordinarily players brought on later than the eightieth minute are not graded, however the excessive stoppage time and Dunne’s contribution across 15 minutes on the pitch we felt warranted a mark on this occasion.
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