CAMBRIDGE UNITED

‘Laughing at the absurdity of it all is the only way to get through supporting a club like Cambridge United. And that is why I love it.’

MAX RUSHDEN talkSPORT presenter

‘Kev, you’d better stop celebrating, you’ve got a gig tonight.’ ‘S’alright. I’ll sober up in the car back to London.’ ‘We’re already in London.’

Conversation between myself and friends

None of which would have been a problem if I was doing a regular 20-minute circuit gig somewhere, but I was meant to be compering the Comedy Store, which meant being awake and funny for two whole shows between 8 p.m. and 2 a.m., so I was currently being marched/persuaded/cajoled round Leicester Square while they threw water in my face and coffee in my mouth. Luckily, it worked and I sparkled on stage for several hours, pausing only once to throw up in the dressing-room sink. And, yes, I know that sounds gross, but trust me, a lot of things worse than that happened to that poor sink.

I still blame Cambridge United for that now, because none of it would have happened if they’d had a bigger ground. Well, it wasn’t my fault, was it?

It was 10 March 1990. We were back in the First Division after a long absence, but not doing very well – and were loitering just above the relegation zone, but an unusual thing was happening elsewhere. We were on a cup run. We’d had one before when we reached the semi-final in 1976 but we’ve been playing football since 1905, so a second one in just 85 years was definitely something to enjoy while it lasted.

And it was lasting. The balls in the bag had fallen nicely and the quarter-final against Cambridge away was our fourth game in a row against lower league opposition. We travelled in hope. Mainly in the hope of getting a ticket. They had a terrible tiny ground and the away end had sold out in minutes, long before we got to the front of the queue. I say ‘we’; ‘we’ sent Chirpy, which was a triumph of optimism over experience. I still love him to bits but I still don’t understand why we always asked the world’s most unreliable man to sort things out for us.

Not a problem, though. We’d get a ticket down there easily enough and Cambridge would be yet another pushover on our inevitable march to Wembley glory. But there was trouble ahead on both fronts. Several thousand other Palace fans had the same laissez-faire ticket idea; and Cambridge United were a team on the up. I would say they were a club with a modest history, but I’m worried that the word ‘modest’ might be in touch to complain. Let’s say ‘unspectacular’ then.

They started as an ambitious amateur club called Abbey United in 1919,* but Cambridge United has only existed as a professional football club since 1951. Their first manager was Bill Whittaker, an ex-Palace player. He was 28 years old, but his hair had turned white during his time as a rear-gunner flying bombing missions in the war. A fact I try to remember every time I’m furious about having to wait five whole minutes for an Uber.

They didn’t reach the Football League until 1970 and apart from a couple of seasons under a young Ron Atkinson they had pretty much been trying to get back out of it again for 20 years. Until now, that is. Most Palace fans will tell you that it is typical of our luck that we were about to play a bang-average Fourth Division team just a couple of months after they’d brought in the manager that was about to take them on the ride of their life.

The mere mention of the name John Beck will make purists like Glenn Hoddle shudder even now. It wasn’t just that he played the longest of long ball games (some teams widen the pitch for their wingers, he would have lengthened it if he could), it was that he played the mindest of mind games as well. He moved the away dugout so their coaches got a lopsided view of the game. He had the grass grow longer round the corner flags so the ball would slow down when it was hoofed in that general direction. He took the kettle out of the away dressing room. He used to throw ice-cold water over his own players as a pre-match motivational technique.

In short, he did a lot of things designed to make his own fans love him and everyone else hate him. And it worked. He got them promoted that season. And the season after that and very nearly the season after that.

So when we played them that day, they were a team in form and were straining at the leash to get at the Fancy Dan First Division team while the Fancy Dan First Division team were presumably straining at the leash to get a cup of tea. As it happened, it was a terrible game on a terrible pitch and Palace won 1-0 with a fantastic shot from our captain Geoff Thomas. Or, as Max Rushden puts it: ‘We were robbed by a mis-hit shot from Geoff Thomas, the only time he ever kicked a ball with his right foot ever.’

Sadly, I saw none of this. In general, football fans hate ticket touts. But what they hate even more is no ticket touts. As we approached the ground we met many people we knew who told us there was nothing available. But sharing the optimism of most idiots we just said ‘yeah, nothing available to you, mate’. We, however, had the look of lads who could pay top-dollar and we were convinced a shady individual would approach us any minute offering us four together in the directors’ box.

It didn’t happen. If there were any ticket touts in Cambridge they were obviously off selling tickets for a hot Stephen Hawking lecture because we couldn’t get a ticket for love nor money. And believe me, I would have offered love if necessary.

So, with about three hundred others we listened to the game on the radio in a pub because, believe it or not kids, there was a time when not every game was on telly. The pub was very close to the ground so we could have actually listened to the match from outside the away end. But then we wouldn’t have been in a nice warm pub that sold nice warm beer.

And we wouldn’t have had one of the best indoor celebrations ever when our goal went in. To be fair, we did apologise to the staff and offered to pay to clean the beer off the carpet, but the landlord was already down the travel agent booking a holiday on the money he’d made, so he wasn’t bothered.

Why You Shouldn’t Support Them

■ You should at least try and win football games with a football, not a kettle.

■ Max Rushden is still bloody moaning about Geoff’s wonder goal even now.

■ I may only have thrown up once, but it was for a long time. Luckily the act on stage had a very loud guitar so no one could hear me. Except the other acts in the dressing room, of course.