The Theatre of Dreams

That's what they call Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams. Previously, I thought it a slightly corny, cheesy, hopeful title.

Until 9:07 on Saturday night.

That's when Brynjar Gunnarsson, Icelandic Midfielder, rose above the massed Manchester United team and powered a header against the bar from 15 yards, watching it richochet off the woodwork into the net. 5,000 Readings fans exploded in euphoric relief: an equaliser.

Dad got given a ticket to the game, arguably one of the biggest in Reading Football Club's history, by a season ticket holder who couldn't go. A week later, another season ticket holder offered my grandad two tickets. He gave them to my dad, who decided that me and my brother were ideal recipients. So, as you can imagine, we were all over the moon. Delighted. Astounded. Every good adjective.

The last time Reading and Manchester United played in the FA Cup was in 1996, January, at Reading's old ground, Elm Park. Dad had taken me to that - my brother had been too young - and I had been in the front row of the old, loud, thundering South Bank to watch the superstars of United - Cantona, Keane, Giggs - beat Reading three nil. I was so cold that I cried all the way home. The result didn't matter: we'd played Man United.

I got the train up to Manchester and met my Dad, waving at me on the platform. Excitement was building as we neared Manchester: at every station, new groups of fans, for both sides, climbed aboard, laughing and joking. There was no hostile atmosphere that you'd have associated with British football 5 or 10 years ago. A lesson that could be learned by Lille after last night's events in the Champions League.

We got in the car to go find somewhere to park, and we still had almost two hours before kickoff. Mum had packed us huge amounts of food, typical of her maternal streak: bags of crisps, sandwiches, tubes of biscuits, bottles of drink. The glove compartment was lined with sweets - pear drops, toffees. We were all stupidly excited, and we found a parking spot at a College nearby that opens it's gates to football traffic. There was people everywhere. Every chippy was flooding out people, happy, every pub had queues outside, every road was covered with Man United and the occasional Reading shirt. You turn a corner, and there it is: The East Stand, the famous roof, the famous windows, the famous 'Manchester United' in red letters across the top.

We bought programmes: one for home, one for me, one for each of my cousins who support Reading. Then we walked, with the flood of people, towards the Megastore. It's huge. There are 6 queues outside, full of people. They opened the gates and let us all stream in, and inside you can hardly move. They have sixteen tills, yet the queue snakes down the megastore and back up again. They sell everything you could possibly want in a Manchester United branding - dog bowls, sweets, socks. We decided to come back after the match for our souvenirs. Instead, we took a walk around the stadium, taking in the fantastic atmosphere.

Like on the train, there was no intimidation. It was a unique, special mood that surrounded Old Trafford. Everyone was there to enjoy an occasion. Eventually, we went inside. Our level was quite high up and we had to go up several flights of stares, before emerging onto a concourse, full of TV screens showing MUTV, snack bars and program sellers. And there, tantalising between the legs of Reading fans, red seats across the field of dreams. Dad left us to go to his section, the next one along, and me and my brother went to find our seats.

It's the great leveller among football stadiums: pacing up the stairs that let you into the main arena; the first glimpse.

Old Trafford's is spectacular. Red seats surround the pitch, verdant and green (with a few muddy patches). The buzz of an oncoming match. We sat in awe. Eventually, the Reading Goalkeepers came out to warm up, followed by the Man United team, and the rest of the Reading players, as the stadium slowly filled up. Eventually, it was time to kick off. 70,000 people were in their seats, and we rose to greet the teams as the strode out on to the turf. Truly a historic site: the Royal blue hoops of Reading walking out alongside the historic red of Manchester United.

The first half was a pretty level affair. We couldn't hear much of the United fans' chanting: Reading's resilience and competitiveness had silenced their resolve, and the team couldn't find a way through the Reading defence. We didn't make too many chances, but they couldn't break us down. The team, whilst not as technically gifted as Man United's players, work fantastically together as a team. The wingers, however, weren't breaking through at all. Ulises de la Cruz, playing at right back, was playing fantastically, as was Andre Bikey, at centre back. Much had been made before the game of manager Steve Coppell's team selection: some fringe players, who don't play as much in the league, were starting. Many people will tell you that modern football is a Squad game, and I agree: it's just a shame that the manager got so much abuse when he decided to use his full squad. Any critics would have been answered by Reading's performance.

Michael Carrick scored, for Man United, with literally the last kick of the first half. It was a well taken goal, and there was nothing that Adam Federici could have done about it - he had a brilliant game otherwise, especially tipping a Henrik Larsson effort around the post towards the end of the second half. We saw it from our end of the ground - we had a great view of the whole game - and it really was a phenomenal save. There was about 3 seconds of stunned silence from the Reading fans when United scored, but immediately afterwards the Reading fans started shouting and chanting support for our team. Traditionally, the Reading fans have been given Squad Number 13 in recognition of their role in a match: we really showed it at Old Trafford, I believe.

I said to my Dad and Brother at half time that if there's one team that wouldn't lie down, and would fight back against a Man United one goal lead, it was Reading. We got a drink at half time, and a pie. We normally don't at football, but it's a tradition, so we did. We were glad, too: nice pies. The second half kicked off and Reading weren't getting into the game as much. Eventually, however, we began to make ground again. They were playing towards us in this half, and every time they even touched the ball, we were shouting. A crescendo was reached with every attack, and beaten by another every time we got a corner. We were standing, chanting, singing, and the team were playing better, slowly forcing United into their area and onto the back foot.

United had all 11 of their players in the box when Gunnarsson rose and headed an equaliser. We sung and dance all the way to the final whistle, and all the way out of the ground. We're taking United back to the Madejski Stadium, in Reading, for a replay a week Tuesday. The atmosphere at Old Trafford was unique, and special. My voice was hoarse afterwords. I can only compare it to two matches i've attended before: the 1994/1995 playoff final against Wolverhampton at the Old Wembley Stadium - before we lost the match, of course - and on September 11th, 2001, when Reading played West Ham at home in the League Cup. We took them all the way through extra time and penalties that night. But I think this topped it.

It's one of those things that happens to you in your life, one that you'll never forget. It felt so odd; the players that I usually watch on a TV Screen in the Snooker Hall were there, in front of me, on the pitch. It still doesn't seem real, and i'll never forget the rumble of anticipation and worry in equal measure when Cristiano Ronaldo - the best player in the world, at the moment - picked up the ball. Some of the things he can do with a football beggar belief.

So, like I said, we sung our way out of the stadium and back to the car. It took us 45 minutes to get out of Manchester, but we didn't mind. We had Radio 5 on, and everyone was phoning in to talk about the game and how well Reading had done, and to show their support for Steve Coppell and the players. We stopped at a service station on the way home, and Match of the Day was on, showing the highlights. There was a coachload of Reading fans there, and we all got a Burger King. We arrived home at around half twelve.

I'm sure there's a few details I've forgotten. I bought a keyring, socks and a 'theatre of dreams' mug. It was, really, an experience. Staggering.

I went home for the rest of the weekend, and had a good time with the family. I came back, via a terrible and disrupted train journey, a couple of nights ago. And the weather's been pretty mediocre today. Cloudy and not at all exciting.

My weekend, however, was unbelievable. An unforgettable experience: that's about as well as I can talk about it. Especially since I used all the adjectives up earlier.

Snow Day!

So, Chris hammered on my door at 8:56 yesterday morning, and I trudged out of bed and drew back the curtains.

The beach was totally covered in snow, at least until where the waves were hitting it. The road was covered in snow, and every car had a blankt over it. I could see the mountain across the bay from the marina, and that was white. I went into the kitchen, to look at the view I get from the back of our house: the rest of Aberystwyth. Every surface that snow could have latched itself onto was glistening white.

Chris got back from his lecture at 10ish, and came into my room. I was already dressed, so we shared mutual excitement about the late arrival of winter, with the girls, who were too scared of getting cold to come outside for a snowball fight. So we put on big coats and gloves and headed out. Snow was still falling pretty hard, and it was wonderful. We phoned Rich and told him to get his ass over, and he arrived soon after. In the intervening period, we were encamped on a side of the road each, preparing snowballs out of site for his arrival: his car was going to pay when he drove past. So, of course, he stopped way before, so we had to run up to the car and pelt him from there. And then it begun: snowball fight.

We switched teams quite regularly, moving up and down the street, scooping the snow off of cars and any surface we could, throwing and abusing each other. We turned off of our street and up Castle Road, and saw a larger group of people up the road having a snowball fight. We slowly moved up the street, fighting, throwing snow at passing trucks and cars. Then, a truck moved: behind it was Feathers, barman in our local, and new number one target. He quickly dived in his car, which recieved a thorough covering. Then we moved on up the street and took on this other group of people, and there were about 6 or 7 of them. It was awesome. We had a side of the street each, and snowballs were raining down, cannoning off walls and lamposts, thudding on windows and doors, occasionally making contact. We were ducking behind cars and making quick runs to new positions in open ground: it was like being in a war, in the middle of a battle. I suppose in some ways we were. This all ended when Chris hit a red Sierra, driven by a pretty camp guy, who instantly slammed on his breaks and reversed back to shout at us in his slightly funny voice. Chris responded to this with another snowball, and we ran away.

Deciding to head up to the Castle and see what was happening up there, we called a cease-fire to allow a mother with 2 young children (4 and 6ish) to pass and go into their house. And then, walking past the back gate of this house on the way to the castle: snowballs. Flying over the fence. A clear declaration of war. So, we had a play snowball-fight with these little kids, which was a laugh; they were obviously having a good time. The eldest, a boy, kept coming out and throwing the snowballs at us, and the girl would throw smaller ones and call us 'smelly'. Then she came out from nowhere with a chuck of snow bigger than her head: we know when we're beaten.

There was a group of chavvy kids up at the castle who started throwing snow at us, so retaliation was the only option. The Castle is possibly the best place for a snowball fight, ever. Who knows if people were doing the same thing in the same places hundreds of years before, on a snowy winter morning? So we ducked and dived among the towers and turrets for a while. After that, we decided to retire to Varsity for lunch. I had a driving lesson then, which was good: I only stalled a couple of times, and didn't have too many problems with icy or slippery roads. Also of note is the fact that when I came back to the house I parked, first time, better than Rich or Chris had done with their three cars combined. I'm going to rub that in at every opportunity.

After the lesson, Rich had the idea of a drive up into the mountains, to Nant-y-Moch resevoir, to see more snow. However, up there, it was minus several degrees and the snow was several feet deep: pretty impassable. So after a slow journey back, Rich and Chris decided to go back in the Landrover. So, of course, we didn't hear from them for hours.

As it turns out, they got stuck in a snowdrift, and spent an hour and a half trying to dig themselves out. Which didn't work. So they walked a mile to a farmhouse to use their phone - no mobile signal all the way out there - and called Mountain Rescue. Who, despite rescuing people from mountains being their jobs, referred them to the Police. Who then told Rich that the weather was too hazardous for them to come out, which I find an absolutely appalling attitude to have, but oh well. They called Kayleigh, who came and rescued them. They had to walk 3 miles to the nearest main road, in that cold, in that snow. We were all really worried at home and contemplating calling the Police or Mountain Rescue, but then, by luck, I managed to get a call through to Rich. As if the Police would have done anything anyway.

So, when they got back, we retired to The Castle - our local - which was almost empty, only with regulars who we know, and Feathers, the barman who we'd snowballed earlier, where we proceeded to watch the World Rally Championship highlights with Feathers and have tipsy conversations with his housemate, who was on the double vodkas. And then, bed.

Today, snow was still sticking around a little, and it snowed pretty heavily for most of the day. However, it wasn't sticking around. So that's that for another year.

The Breakfast Club

What an intruiging film.

Me and Chris just watched it. What an amazing film. I saw it before, a couple of years ago, but wasn't paying full attention and so didn't take it all in at the time. Forgive me if this just seems a little babbly, butI don't particulaly know where to start, now i've begun like that. Maybe I should start at the end, because that's the part that's the most vivid in my mind. The ending, as far as I could understand, was in some parts the perfect conclusion to the movie. In other parts, I thought, it wasn't as good. Brian told Claire towards the end: 'You're so conceited', and I felt the same about the conclusion. It was obvious from the beginning that Claire, the prissy, stuck up, popular Cheerleader, was drawn to Bender: the arrogant, rough bully, who just happened to have hidden depths. So when they got together, in a closet, it was kind of.. expected. However, Andrew and Alison? It seemed to me that the whole time the film was exploring our relationships and the benefits that can be gained by not taking everything at face value and getting to know people, inside as well as out. And yet, as the coup de grace, if you will, Claire gives Alison a makeover: from intriguing, elusive goth into pretty, bubbly goddess. Andrew is immediately interested. They kiss, all is right with the world. Brian, the nerd, leaves alone with his disgruntled-looking father. It seemed slightly unusual that the whole movie tries to tell us (and very much succeeds) that looks aren't everything, but the apparent only way for two of the characters to leave the school happy are for one of them to undergo a drastic image change so they suit what's more socially acceptable for the other.

So, I was left with a slight bitter taste in my mouth. That has entirely erased any good feelings I had about it, which is a shame. It's a fantastic movie, and is funny, moving and emotional. I suppose I shouldn't hold the previous paragraph against it because it's not the first time that sort of thing has struck me in a film, and it won't be the last. Perhaps there's something wrong with me when I emerge from almost every film I watch feeling bloated, jaded and jealous when, no matter what has happened previously, a happy resolution is the only concievable outcome, however unrealistic it may appear. Perhaps it's what people want to watch. They want to escape from their own lives, sadly missing the happy ending, and relive someone elses for a while. I'm not sure I can handle that, however, because I want the happy ending, and I'm not sure I can help wanting it.

Personally, I thought Alison was much better looking before her 'transformation'. She was intriguing. She wore dowdy, figure-destroying clothes, but that didn't bother me. Never much has, not sure if it will, once I pack the shallow jokes away that seem to pervade every male. Her impish smile, eyes - hell, her impish face shone through, and there was hidden depths. I wanted to sit down with her, talk through the night, watch the sunset, talk through the next day, let her talk to me: explore each other. However, when Claire got hold of her, all that was lost. She was wearing a flirty white top, she walked like a cheap tease, bit her bottom lip with the best of them. Her hair was distinctly undistinct and the social awkwardness that pervaded her before seemed put-on and unusual. It wasn't attractive anymore: she seemed to be playing an act this time. I couldn't take it seriously. I guess that goes against what I've been writing in that I shouldn't be judging people by their covers, like they were in the film - but if the social awkardness was still present, she sure didn't show it when she got near to Andrew. Any shy flutters of the eyelashes that appeared after her transformation seemed to be for show rather than indicators of anything going on in her brain.

Deep breath.

Not sure if I know what to say now. I prefered Alison before she changed from intriguing and shy to your average brunette bimbo. But that doesn't matter, right? She got the guy, so at least the movie had it's priorities right. I find it odd that the only character who didn't leave attached to someone was Brian, perhaps the catalyst for many of the later changes in the development of the plot and the characters: his revelations about why he was in detention both shocked and loosened people up, made them talk. Made them want to cut loose and start enjoying their confinement. He was the one who shouted at Claire and told her what everyone was thinking; he asked the question about friendship that got everybody talking. In some respects, he was the one who most deserved some sort of resolution from the film. However, nothing came of it. He was too shy to try for anything else; too worried about rejection and failure. Perhaps I just feel strongly about him because I relate. I just think it's another possibly negative image from the film. Bender has obvious appeal as the bad boy. Andrew, the clean-cut, good-looking athlete. Brian: the nerd. Bender asked him in the movie: 'When do you get laid?' And it'd be a good question to answer. But it isn't just about getting laid, having sex, or whatever. I got the impression, especially towards the end, that he just wanted someone to talk to. Not that he was the only one who needed that, of course: the confessions of every other person in there, including the head teacher and the janitor, pay testament to that. But by the end of the film, Brian's the only one who would be willing to talk to the others outside of detention. He's the one who wakes them up to the fact that it's a shitty thing to do, and Alison agrees with him. But pre-transformation, she's too shy. Post, she's too busy with Athlete Andrew. Apart from Brian, everyone is too busy with everyone else to consider anything beyond their seemingly shallow fade back into their old social groups and their old lives.

Brian asked them, specifically, if they'd say hello to him, as a friend, on Monday morning, back at school. He's the only one who would. Andrew's too busy, Claire's too stuck up, Bender's too cool, Alison's too shy. Despite the inkling that they all would like to - maybe - they're too caught up in their own lives and cultivating their own images to care about what's really important post high-school when everyone's drifted away into obscurity. Yes, I felt that the film did try to teach things, preach morals. It was funny, hilariously so at some points, and it did make me think. A lot. but I feel that the conclusion has left a lot to be desired. Sure, some people like the fairytale ending when everyone goes away happy. But not everybody did. Perhaps the most deserving character left with the fewest achievements at the end of their Saturday detention as everyone else filtered back into their lives, too cool to do anything else except pretend that their rendezvous had ever happened. The first hour and a half of The Breakfast Club could be summed up as: don't judge a book by it's cover. The last five minutes, I reckon, could be summarised as the total opposite.

On the plus side, though, it'll snow tonight if the weather's telling the truth.