Incredigull
In Cervesio Felicitas
about stewards
Read this poor sod's story :
Taken from Beautifulgame.net
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A bloke called Dave Thomas is an absolute legend among QPR fans. He edits the A Kick Up the Rs fanzine and goes to every game to sell it. While we were all madly celebrating on Saturday evening, the news began to filter through that a Sheff Wed steward had refused Dave entry to the ground, meaning one of our greatest fans missed one of our greatest triumphs. Loads of Rangers fans have since written to Sheff Wed about this and have been told that the steward concerned will never work at Hillsborough again. This is fine, but does not make up for Dave's heartbreak.
This is Dave story, in his own words from the www.qpr.org message board:
For once, I can barely find the necessary words to describe how I feel today. I should be celebrating but I can't even begin. Nor have I.
I was prevented from going into the ground yesterday. Not once, but twice. Before the game I had been selling the fanzine close to the away entrance without any problems. I had two tickets on me - my own and one for my mate. Close to kick-off time, I got a phone call from him saying he was held up on a tram and it looked like he was going to be late.
He eventually turned up at 3.10pm and after giving him his ticket, I hurried over to the entrance. I had a rucksack on, which was half-full of fanzines. As I went to go through the turnstile, I heard a voice shout "Has anyone checked his bag?". I stopped, went back, opened it, offered it up for inspection, and as I have done 20 times or more away from home this season, said: "There's no cans or bottles, mate - just fanzines."
"You can't take those in there."
"Don't worry, they'll stay in there. I won't try selling them inside."
"Doesn't matter, you're not going in with them"
"So what am I supposed to do with them then?"
"Don't care. You'll have to dump them."
"Mate, this is my livelihood in here. And you're saying 'dump then'?"
Then the steward on the next turnstile shouted across, "You'll not allowed to take fanzines in."
"Why not? What's the problem?"
"It's the club. They say no fanzines allowed in."
By this time, I am frustrated and annoyed. "They are tossers then. Bloody tossers the lot of them."
I was forced to go off and find somewhere to leave my bag. Where? That was the problem. I walked down one of the side streets and came across some bloke working in his front garden.
"Excuse me, mate. This might sound a bit daft but they won't let me in the ground with my bag. It's got fanzines in it and I have been told to dump them. I can't do that. I know this is a bit strange but could you look after it for me?"
He would - and he did. And very grateful I was too. I hurried back to the away entrance. By now it was close to 3.30pm. As I walked towards the turnstile, the search steward grinned at me. I told myself not to argue or say anything.
"See your ticket, mate," the steward asked. I handed it to him - and then, like a mother taking something from a naughty child, put it in his pocket. He puffed out his chest, thrust his face right into me and with all the menace that people like him get off on said: "You're not coming in - now f*** off."
At this point my world caved in. The realisation hit me that I was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. He had all the power and would have all the back-up he needed - because right there, right then he had the absolute power to do as he pleased. And I have never felt so emotionally battered as I did at that moment. I demanded he gave me the ticket back - and he announced it was now the property of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. I asked him for his name. "I don't have to give you my name," he replied. "Just 'search steward' is all you need to know."
I went over to the police and explained to them what had happened and asked them to intervene. They explained they couldn't as the stewards had the authority at the turnstiles and there was nothing they could do. I walked back past the away entrance and around to the main reception. As I did so, I looked over at the steward. He was smirking at me. As I got around the corner, a huge roar went up. Rangers had taken the lead.
Surprisingly I was able to walk straight into the Sheffield Wednesday reception. I was very calm, very polite but very firm in asking to see someone in authority. But no-one was available. "You'd best ring up on Monday morning." There was no point venting my anger at any of the ladies at reception. They weren't responsible and were genuinely sympathetic anyway. Behind the desk was a room, with the door open and a man operating and surveying the outside of the ground on CCTV. The away end entrance was clearly visible on screen and therefore I now know that the events as described above had been captured on video. They can't collaborate my version of what was said, but they will certainly show the manner and actions of the steward, which I maintain was inappropriate.
Eventually two operation officials came into the reception area. By this time another QPR fan had turned up to lodge a complaint. He had been ejected from the home areas and was unhappy at the way he had been manhandled and thrown out of the ground. He had bought his ticket from Sheffield Wednesday.
I explained to the two officials my version of events - and, to their credit, they listened and responded in a very professional manner. The senior of the two asked me why I had been refused entry with my rucksack. "Because it contained fanzines," I said. He looked puzzled at this and, shaking his head, said: "And what?". It was a query, as if he was expecting me to add information that would explain things more."
I suspect by the time I take this up with the Sheffield Wednesday secretary, there will conveniently have been a long-standing club rule in place that no fanzines are allowed inside the ground. If that is so, then it was certainly news to these two gentlemen. And how visiting fanzine editors are suppose to know is anyone's guess.
They also asked if I had got the name of the steward. "He wouldn't give it," I replied. "He just said 'search steward is all you need to know'."
By the time all this had taken place, it was now 3-1 and I made my way back to the away entrance, then over to the house to retrieve my bag. I was numb and totally detached from what was going on inside the ground. As the roar went up to signal the end of the game, there were lots of Wednesday fans hanging around looking for trouble. It was nasty experience and I was wary of my safety. Leaving altogether wasn't an option as I was meeting my mate afterwards. And in any case, numb and upset as I was, in the relative safety of the QPR fans streaming out, I still had to sell those remaining fanzines, hard as it was to stand there and do so knowing what had happened. But it did at least give me a tiny sense of normality.
By the time the Rangers fans had largely dispersed and I had finished telling the umpteenth person a potted version of what had happened, my mate and I trudged back to the car in silence, me too distraught to say anything or to ask about the game, and he not knowing what he could say to ease the emotional pain I was clearly going through. And, in truth, there was nothing he could say. We were in Macclesfield before I could even bring myself to speak. "Sorry about not going for a beer afterwards," I said, "You understand though, don't you?"
"It's okay, I understand," he replied.
I cannot even begin to explain how I still feel - 'emotionally assaulted' is about the best I can do. I feel like a kid who has run down stairs on Christmas Day and found all his presents stolen. It's still Christmas - it's just hard to feel part of it afterwards. I haven't felt a single surge of elation that we are up. I have a burning sense of injustice and an underlying anger which I am struggling to contain. I have no idea what sort of game it was because I can't bring myself to talk about it. I can't even read any of the hundreds of messages because it wounds just seeing them.
Perhaps some reading this will think I brought it all on myself, or that I shouldn't have retorted as I did and only have myself to blame. Personally, I believe that my 'punishment' far exceeds my crime - if indeed I did anything wrong in the first place.
The issue here really is about power - and how an individual can abuse that. If the steward in question believed that an exchange of words - and not abusive ones at that - justifies denying me seeing the game, the importance of which he must be all too aware of, then I believe he shouldn't be entrusted with that kind of power in the first place.
I strongly believe that he was always going to deny me entry into the ground and the whole thing was played out to justify that. I know it is the same outside security firm who also steward at Sheffield United. Three years ago, I was ejected from Bramall Lane, without warning, for selling the fanzine at half-time. Most clubs don't even bat an eyelid on our travels - and on the odd occasion a steward has told me to stop, I stop. At Bramall Lane, though, I was grabbed, manhandled forcibly out of the ground, assaulted outside and ended up in hospital having X-ray treatment on my arm after I lost all feeling in it - and it was in a sling for a week with nerve damage.
The following season, and determined not to give in to thuggery, I squared it first that it was okay to take them in. Amazingly the stewards even gave me a place at half-time to stand and sell them! I can't be sure but I am fairly certain that the steward yesterday was also involved in the incident at Sheffield United. Either way, here he was determined again to show me who was boss.
Not selling fanzines inside the ground is one thing. Preventing me from taking them in, in my rucksack is something else entirely. What damned business is it of anyone what I carry in my bag. In fact I had other things in there too. If it had been back issues of TV Quick, or whatever, would that have been okay? And if such a rule exists, is it unreasonable not to have provision for depositing such items? I would have happily done so. But instead I get a shrug of the shoulders and advice that I should dump the contents of my bag. Why the hell should I? What sort of response is that?
The thing is, no-one cares or gives a toss about one football fan not getting into a game. Sheffield Wednesday, of this I am certain, will back their man. Whether they will do so with a clear conscience only they will know.
What has humbled me from all this, though, is the support and sympathy I have had from so many different people. I can't begin to explain how important that has been. I wrote a piece on Friday in which I said that if things were to go wrong the following day, there could be no more poignant setting to provide a sense of perspective than there in Leppings Lane. I accept the above is very self-indulgent. I don't believe I have any more or any less right that the next QPR fan to enter with a valid ticket and see my team. The distress I feel even now is obviously greater because of the importance of the game. And I do - really I do - have a sense of perspective on it in the greater scheme of things.
I am so pleased for everyone - players, management and especially the magnificent fans - that we have gained promotion and that long-awaited bit of success - our first in the 17-year history of the fanzine! I don't want to diminish one iota of the joy of celebration that everyone feels - although I know I unintentionally have. And I regret that.
But I will never be able to write about it with any kind of understanding of having been there and witnessed it for myself. I will never be able to bring to mind the memory of a packed stand celebrating the goals. I will never know what it felt like when each of those goals went in. I have commited nine months of emotional highs and lows to my beloved QPR - and at the end I was denied our crowning moment. In short, I will never be able to share the memory of this day because I have none - or none that are joyous, anyway.
And I don't think I deserve that.
Right now, I just want to crawl into a dark corner and hide - and I don't think I deserve that either.
Dave Thomas
Read this poor sod's story :
Taken from Beautifulgame.net
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A bloke called Dave Thomas is an absolute legend among QPR fans. He edits the A Kick Up the Rs fanzine and goes to every game to sell it. While we were all madly celebrating on Saturday evening, the news began to filter through that a Sheff Wed steward had refused Dave entry to the ground, meaning one of our greatest fans missed one of our greatest triumphs. Loads of Rangers fans have since written to Sheff Wed about this and have been told that the steward concerned will never work at Hillsborough again. This is fine, but does not make up for Dave's heartbreak.
This is Dave story, in his own words from the www.qpr.org message board:
For once, I can barely find the necessary words to describe how I feel today. I should be celebrating but I can't even begin. Nor have I.
I was prevented from going into the ground yesterday. Not once, but twice. Before the game I had been selling the fanzine close to the away entrance without any problems. I had two tickets on me - my own and one for my mate. Close to kick-off time, I got a phone call from him saying he was held up on a tram and it looked like he was going to be late.
He eventually turned up at 3.10pm and after giving him his ticket, I hurried over to the entrance. I had a rucksack on, which was half-full of fanzines. As I went to go through the turnstile, I heard a voice shout "Has anyone checked his bag?". I stopped, went back, opened it, offered it up for inspection, and as I have done 20 times or more away from home this season, said: "There's no cans or bottles, mate - just fanzines."
"You can't take those in there."
"Don't worry, they'll stay in there. I won't try selling them inside."
"Doesn't matter, you're not going in with them"
"So what am I supposed to do with them then?"
"Don't care. You'll have to dump them."
"Mate, this is my livelihood in here. And you're saying 'dump then'?"
Then the steward on the next turnstile shouted across, "You'll not allowed to take fanzines in."
"Why not? What's the problem?"
"It's the club. They say no fanzines allowed in."
By this time, I am frustrated and annoyed. "They are tossers then. Bloody tossers the lot of them."
I was forced to go off and find somewhere to leave my bag. Where? That was the problem. I walked down one of the side streets and came across some bloke working in his front garden.
"Excuse me, mate. This might sound a bit daft but they won't let me in the ground with my bag. It's got fanzines in it and I have been told to dump them. I can't do that. I know this is a bit strange but could you look after it for me?"
He would - and he did. And very grateful I was too. I hurried back to the away entrance. By now it was close to 3.30pm. As I walked towards the turnstile, the search steward grinned at me. I told myself not to argue or say anything.
"See your ticket, mate," the steward asked. I handed it to him - and then, like a mother taking something from a naughty child, put it in his pocket. He puffed out his chest, thrust his face right into me and with all the menace that people like him get off on said: "You're not coming in - now f*** off."
At this point my world caved in. The realisation hit me that I was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. He had all the power and would have all the back-up he needed - because right there, right then he had the absolute power to do as he pleased. And I have never felt so emotionally battered as I did at that moment. I demanded he gave me the ticket back - and he announced it was now the property of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. I asked him for his name. "I don't have to give you my name," he replied. "Just 'search steward' is all you need to know."
I went over to the police and explained to them what had happened and asked them to intervene. They explained they couldn't as the stewards had the authority at the turnstiles and there was nothing they could do. I walked back past the away entrance and around to the main reception. As I did so, I looked over at the steward. He was smirking at me. As I got around the corner, a huge roar went up. Rangers had taken the lead.
Surprisingly I was able to walk straight into the Sheffield Wednesday reception. I was very calm, very polite but very firm in asking to see someone in authority. But no-one was available. "You'd best ring up on Monday morning." There was no point venting my anger at any of the ladies at reception. They weren't responsible and were genuinely sympathetic anyway. Behind the desk was a room, with the door open and a man operating and surveying the outside of the ground on CCTV. The away end entrance was clearly visible on screen and therefore I now know that the events as described above had been captured on video. They can't collaborate my version of what was said, but they will certainly show the manner and actions of the steward, which I maintain was inappropriate.
Eventually two operation officials came into the reception area. By this time another QPR fan had turned up to lodge a complaint. He had been ejected from the home areas and was unhappy at the way he had been manhandled and thrown out of the ground. He had bought his ticket from Sheffield Wednesday.
I explained to the two officials my version of events - and, to their credit, they listened and responded in a very professional manner. The senior of the two asked me why I had been refused entry with my rucksack. "Because it contained fanzines," I said. He looked puzzled at this and, shaking his head, said: "And what?". It was a query, as if he was expecting me to add information that would explain things more."
I suspect by the time I take this up with the Sheffield Wednesday secretary, there will conveniently have been a long-standing club rule in place that no fanzines are allowed inside the ground. If that is so, then it was certainly news to these two gentlemen. And how visiting fanzine editors are suppose to know is anyone's guess.
They also asked if I had got the name of the steward. "He wouldn't give it," I replied. "He just said 'search steward is all you need to know'."
By the time all this had taken place, it was now 3-1 and I made my way back to the away entrance, then over to the house to retrieve my bag. I was numb and totally detached from what was going on inside the ground. As the roar went up to signal the end of the game, there were lots of Wednesday fans hanging around looking for trouble. It was nasty experience and I was wary of my safety. Leaving altogether wasn't an option as I was meeting my mate afterwards. And in any case, numb and upset as I was, in the relative safety of the QPR fans streaming out, I still had to sell those remaining fanzines, hard as it was to stand there and do so knowing what had happened. But it did at least give me a tiny sense of normality.
By the time the Rangers fans had largely dispersed and I had finished telling the umpteenth person a potted version of what had happened, my mate and I trudged back to the car in silence, me too distraught to say anything or to ask about the game, and he not knowing what he could say to ease the emotional pain I was clearly going through. And, in truth, there was nothing he could say. We were in Macclesfield before I could even bring myself to speak. "Sorry about not going for a beer afterwards," I said, "You understand though, don't you?"
"It's okay, I understand," he replied.
I cannot even begin to explain how I still feel - 'emotionally assaulted' is about the best I can do. I feel like a kid who has run down stairs on Christmas Day and found all his presents stolen. It's still Christmas - it's just hard to feel part of it afterwards. I haven't felt a single surge of elation that we are up. I have a burning sense of injustice and an underlying anger which I am struggling to contain. I have no idea what sort of game it was because I can't bring myself to talk about it. I can't even read any of the hundreds of messages because it wounds just seeing them.
Perhaps some reading this will think I brought it all on myself, or that I shouldn't have retorted as I did and only have myself to blame. Personally, I believe that my 'punishment' far exceeds my crime - if indeed I did anything wrong in the first place.
The issue here really is about power - and how an individual can abuse that. If the steward in question believed that an exchange of words - and not abusive ones at that - justifies denying me seeing the game, the importance of which he must be all too aware of, then I believe he shouldn't be entrusted with that kind of power in the first place.
I strongly believe that he was always going to deny me entry into the ground and the whole thing was played out to justify that. I know it is the same outside security firm who also steward at Sheffield United. Three years ago, I was ejected from Bramall Lane, without warning, for selling the fanzine at half-time. Most clubs don't even bat an eyelid on our travels - and on the odd occasion a steward has told me to stop, I stop. At Bramall Lane, though, I was grabbed, manhandled forcibly out of the ground, assaulted outside and ended up in hospital having X-ray treatment on my arm after I lost all feeling in it - and it was in a sling for a week with nerve damage.
The following season, and determined not to give in to thuggery, I squared it first that it was okay to take them in. Amazingly the stewards even gave me a place at half-time to stand and sell them! I can't be sure but I am fairly certain that the steward yesterday was also involved in the incident at Sheffield United. Either way, here he was determined again to show me who was boss.
Not selling fanzines inside the ground is one thing. Preventing me from taking them in, in my rucksack is something else entirely. What damned business is it of anyone what I carry in my bag. In fact I had other things in there too. If it had been back issues of TV Quick, or whatever, would that have been okay? And if such a rule exists, is it unreasonable not to have provision for depositing such items? I would have happily done so. But instead I get a shrug of the shoulders and advice that I should dump the contents of my bag. Why the hell should I? What sort of response is that?
The thing is, no-one cares or gives a toss about one football fan not getting into a game. Sheffield Wednesday, of this I am certain, will back their man. Whether they will do so with a clear conscience only they will know.
What has humbled me from all this, though, is the support and sympathy I have had from so many different people. I can't begin to explain how important that has been. I wrote a piece on Friday in which I said that if things were to go wrong the following day, there could be no more poignant setting to provide a sense of perspective than there in Leppings Lane. I accept the above is very self-indulgent. I don't believe I have any more or any less right that the next QPR fan to enter with a valid ticket and see my team. The distress I feel even now is obviously greater because of the importance of the game. And I do - really I do - have a sense of perspective on it in the greater scheme of things.
I am so pleased for everyone - players, management and especially the magnificent fans - that we have gained promotion and that long-awaited bit of success - our first in the 17-year history of the fanzine! I don't want to diminish one iota of the joy of celebration that everyone feels - although I know I unintentionally have. And I regret that.
But I will never be able to write about it with any kind of understanding of having been there and witnessed it for myself. I will never be able to bring to mind the memory of a packed stand celebrating the goals. I will never know what it felt like when each of those goals went in. I have commited nine months of emotional highs and lows to my beloved QPR - and at the end I was denied our crowning moment. In short, I will never be able to share the memory of this day because I have none - or none that are joyous, anyway.
And I don't think I deserve that.
Right now, I just want to crawl into a dark corner and hide - and I don't think I deserve that either.
Dave Thomas
