We Are Oxford United

Reflections

2010-08-11T21:23:00.006+01:00

Not to repeat.

Not to continue to try whatever psychic channel or vibes we seem to have tuned into (The celebration of The Prodigal Son foreseen in September; the future role of York foreseen in October; A voice crying out that the soul of Oxford needed The Beast to return in February... we shouldn't meddle in forces we don't understand).

Not to continue if the flame isn't there. We're there at a rebirth in yellow: Burton-on-Trent bathed in sunshine, our colour around all four sides of the ground. We're there for a Collosseum performance against Bristol. But is the drive there, without the sense of injustice? The planets realigned at Burton. The wrongs were righted that day in May. We look round and see the world is right again. Perhaps this blog was born of that earlier rage, a howl that had to come out somewhere - and now that they've perhaps mellowed?.. well...

We can feel ourselves moving from that Beckettian injunction to eschew the uselessness of words that we wanted to live by. We try again too many times. So of course we continue, but we'll become more sporadic than before... probably more of the Occasional Pen Portraits, the odd Reading Photographs... an image for a match if we feel we've not done it before. We promised not to repeat. Better this way.

Soundtrack to a season

2010-06-10T11:34:00.004+01:00

We started this website to celebrate the images and feelings entwined with them that stay with us from games; but as much could be said about the songs that become inextricably linked with particular moments for whatever reason. And music is something that can catch us at unexpected moments, evoking a time on a terrace in a land long since lost.

So here's the soundtrack to the season we've just lived. Looking at it now, for someone who knew nothing of those months to stumble on this post, it's a rather motley collection. But if you were there, with us, then you'll know. And when these songs catch you unexpectedly, on the radio, on a television advert, or at a friend's, the hair will stand up on you, or you'll smile and shake your head. And you might catch someone else doing the same: and you'll know.

#1: Saturday 8th August 2009, and before every home game. Begin at the beginning. Not the most stirring or memorable song for an Oxford side to come out to, but given the season it will be linked with, we'll remember it.

#2: Saturday 5th December 2009, Ebbsfleet at home. Turned out we were more 'Livin' on a prayer' than 'half way there'...

#3: 2009/10, Most games, home and away. It was always there, lurking on our terrace, waiting to burst into life. Sometimes hopeful, sometimes chest-out cocky, sometimes defiant (the loudest rendition was at Kenilworth Road after Matt Green scored), and, finally, tearful and disbelieving. We sang it that final time in case those victory celebrations would stop being real if we stopped singing it.

#4: Tuesday 9th February 2010, Luton away/Sunday 16th May 2010 York at Wembley. The counterpoint to a hollow feeling following the final whistle at Kenilworth Road. It would haunt you on the radio, out shopping, in bars, taunting you: remember this?

We stole it back after the final whistle at Wembley.

#5: 7am, Monday 17th May, 2010, kitchens around Oxfordshire. Tears for the first time as Radio Oxford plays a montage of commentary from the play off final, backed by this song.

[All songs/videos taken from youtube. Video #3 of the London Road in full voice after the second leg of our play off semi final against Rushden courtesy of TimOUFCWalker]

Time's arrow

2010-06-07T11:29:00.011+01:00

'And I within, who came at the wrong time - either too soon, or after it was all too late.'

- Time's Arrow

'...fuck you and fuck this stupid club…’

*********************************

Dear Mr. Smith,

I’m writing to you to tell you about my son, Luke.

He is currently playing for Stalybridge Celtic in the Conference North, but I truly believe that he has the ability to play at a higher level, having played for Lincoln in the football league and York in the Conference. Luke was a trainee at Sheffield Wednesday, and I’m sure you can talk to some people there who will tell you about him, but if you were to offer him a trial, you’d see a strong central defender who will give his all for Oxford, but also knows how to play a ball.

*********************************

‘…I am so proud. It's great to get the award from the lads, but to receive the supporters’ award as well is fantastic and I'd like to thank them for that. I wasn't in the team at the start of the season but was determined to do everything I could when I got my chance, and that seems to have paid off. I'll be taking the trophies home in the summer to show my family, and they will take pride of place…’

*********************************

Luke is desperate to play for Oxford under you, and should he get a chance to show what he can do, you will be getting a fully-committed professional footballer. All Luke wants to do is be the best footballer he can be, and playing for a manager of your experience would enable him to do this.

*********************************

‘…Fozzie has been disappointing in his attitude, which has affected why he's not involved. Lifestyle is very important for a footballer and he maybe needs to look at changing his…’

*********************************

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Foster

*********************************

‘…He's played for Lincoln and York and I got a letter from his dad - it's probably because he's a Sheffield lad that I took a bit of interest in him. And I spoke to Marvin Robinson, who played with him at Lincoln. He said that he crunches people - so I thought that might do us well in this league!..’

[Image credits: sand adapted from a photograph by Manfred Morgner courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; Images of Luke Foster courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Reading photographs: Release

2010-05-29T03:20:00.002+01:00

Hope has been a recurrent theme on these pages. But hope so easily melds into expectation. It's hard to think back to August, when we realised that the hope inspired by a strong finish and the building of a convincing squad had somehow coagulated into expectation.

We realised this over the course of about an hour after Richard Brodie had scored at Minchery on a sunny day in August, and the mood on the terrace gradually turned from disappointment, to frustration, to despair. We started to realise: we had thought this was our season.

It took three minutes for the world to change.

Several times this season we've experienced that moment when you exhale so hard that it's a struggle to breathe. We did it that afternoon, and this image shows Matt Green mirroring this. Pain and pleasure in one image, as something is released from within. It's a startling image, but in fact this isn't an image of Matt Green after scoring the first of two goals - the goal scorer is behind him. Mark Creighton, 'The Beast', is locked in fierce embrace with his centre half colleague at the time. It's the sort of embrace you recognise that again shows that dual pleasure and pain: the pleasure is heightened because you realise what you only just avoided.

An unlikely goal scorer, and an unlikely reaction.

And Luke Foster: we're coming for you. What we'd written before and never published seems somehow apt at the point we find ourselves now.

There'll be some other retrospective pieces on this season over the coming weeks. Thanks for reading.

[Image credit: Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Turning town yellow and blue

2010-05-23T14:03:00.006+01:00

(A season that didn't end staring at the concrete floor at Minchery, avoiding each other's glances. It ended in the dusk on Broad Street with a hand shake. It feels like we haven't just brought Oxford back into the league, we've brought a real club back to the heart of Oxfordshire.)

In our beginning was our end

2010-05-17T22:02:00.004+01:00

8th August 2009: 16th May 2010.

[The above photo is © Lewis Outing LRPS CPAGB, and reproduced here with his kind permission. See more of his photography here: http://www.mainlyfax.fotopic.net]

Reading Photographs: Permissible transgressions

2010-05-16T00:31:00.001+01:00

Television pictures of pitch invasions often give the lie to any claims of spontaneity. Members of the crowd toe the hoarding area impatiently, waiting for their moment. The last day of last season: Quod est demonstrandum.

The invasion at the end of the Rushden game was similarly impatient: we knew it would happen. Yet; this time... smiles on the faces. In this picture, the London Road forms a backdrop to the scene assembling in front of it. A Rushden player strides away, looking back: this is not his act. Still, you have to scrutinise for a moment to pick player from fan. The two intermingle, and any initial hesitation the players may have had is swept away in the delirium of the moment. The gestures of celebration imitate... well, which was first? We are there. We are on the pitch. We are Oxford United.

[Image credit: Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Seems like... old times

2010-05-15T14:05:00.002+01:00

Yellow in Headington again.

Journey to our heart of darkness

2010-05-08T15:44:00.007+01:00

'There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream...'

- Heart of Darkness

Going to the ground that day was like travelling back to seasons past, when supporters crowded the bars and clustered round the stadium. Yet, like a visit to the past, a silence seemed to lie over the area. An as-yet-empty terrace, a great silence, and impenetrable crowd of people. The air turned cold, time slowed. When the clouds occasionally parted, there was no joy in the brilliance of the sudden sunshine. The meandering groups of supporters who had stayed with us for the whole journey wandered into the gloom of over-shadowed distances, eyes cast down, avoiding the excited glances of others who had just joined us now.

You lost your way that day as you would in a desert, and batted all day long against shoulders, trying to find your way through, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once – somewhere – far away – in another existence perhaps.

There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of faces, and grey, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it after a while; I did not see it any more; I had no time. The game started and I had to keep guessing at our course; I had to discern the dangers that lay ahead, the signs of mistakes; I watched for a moment of inspiration to visit the players in yellow in front of me; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out when a speculative shot would stray towards our goal, only to be gathered safely in. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality – the reality, I tell you – fades. The purpose for our journey, the inner truth, is hidden – luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching us after we’d paid the entrance fee, not to forget the heartache which makes up the rest of the price.

But what, indeed, does the price matter, if the trick is well done?

[Image credits: Image from Apocolypse Now courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; match image courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Play off semi final, first leg: A call to the colours at Rushden

2010-05-03T10:19:00.001+01:00

Defeat away at Eastbourne on the last day of the regular season

2010-04-25T22:00:00.002+01:00

(The result passes Us by, fixed as we are into the dark of the night on other thoughts)

Wrexham at home

2010-04-25T21:59:00.002+01:00

Sunshine brings Us back to where we were at home to Mansfield

2010-04-18T21:41:00.001+01:00

Goalless at home to Cambridge

2010-04-18T21:40:00.000+01:00

1-0 away at Altrincham

2010-04-11T21:48:00.002+01:00

Victory over Salisbury at home

2010-04-11T21:45:00.002+01:00

A chill wind blowing across the terraces at Hayes

2010-04-03T12:13:00.001+01:00

Blank staring terraces of Stevenage

2010-04-02T11:40:00.001+01:00

'Just a game': Gateshead at home

2010-03-28T12:15:00.004+01:00

(The thoughts in James Constable and Paul Farman's heads as far apart as could be: their reaction, identical)

Away at Rushden

2010-03-27T09:36:00.000Z

Out of the blue and into the black at Tamworth

2010-03-22T20:15:00.003Z

"...there's more to the picture than meets the eye."

Kettering at home: Picking over the bones of a season still alive

2010-03-14T21:58:00.003Z

Feeling empty after Hayes and Yeading at home

2010-03-11T21:27:00.003Z

Subdued away at Cambridge

2010-03-08T18:37:00.002Z

Our dark material

2010-02-18T21:50:00.012Z

'This strange hulking presence gnawing its meat was like nothing she had ever imagined, and she felt a profound admiration and pity for the lonely creature.'

- Northern Lights

‘Beast. May I speak to you?

My heart was thumping hard, because something in the Beast’s present made me feel close to coldness, danger, brutal power, but a power controlled by intelligence; and not a human intelligence, nothing like a human. The tattoos that snaked down his arms seemed to wreath his limbs with some organic design. This strange hulking presence pounding the touchline of the pitch was like nothing I had ever imagined, and I felt a profound admiration and pity for the lonely creature.

He ceased his pounding and crouched. Steam rose from his close-cropped head, and his stubble-lined jaw tightened. Then he stood up massively, six feet and more high, as if to show how mighty he was, to remind me of how useless the advertising hoardings would be as a barrier, and he spoke to me from that height.

‘Well? Who are you?’

His voice was so deep it seemed to shake the earth.

‘I’m a supporter of Oxford United.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see you employed.’

‘I am employed.’

It was very hard to detect any expressive tones in his voice, whether of irony or anger, because it was so deep and flat.

‘Employed at what?’

‘I train with the team.’

‘What kind of work is that for a player such as you?’

‘Paid work.’

The beast knelt and began to stretch his mighty legs, heedless of me, it seemed; but then he spoke again.

‘What work are you suggesting?’

‘Fighting, in all probability,’ I said. ‘Soon we have to play Wimbledon at home, and Stevenage away. When that happens, we’ll have to fight to win.’

‘And what will you pay?’

‘I don’t know what to offer you Beast. If honour and glory are desirable to you, I can offer that.’

He was silent.

‘Forgive me for asking, Beast, but you could live a free proud life on the pitch. What ties you to the touchline and the bench?’

I felt my skin shiver all over. The question, which was almost an insult, may have enraged the great creature beyond reason, and I wondered how I’d had the courage to ask it. The Beast stopped his stretch, and came close to the terrace where I stood to peer at my face.

‘I know Stevenage and I know Wimbledon. Now I don’t like these teams, so I shall answer you politely. I stay here and pace this touchline and sit on that bench because they took away my yellow shirt. Without the yellow shirt I can train, but I can’t go to war in matches such as you speak of. I came to Oxford to escape from this league with you, and battles such as these are the air I breathe and the food I eat. They took my shirt from me, and if I knew how to get it back, I should tear that bench from its fixings and hurl it into the stands. If you want my service, I must have this shirt. With that, and I shall serve you in your campaign, either until I am dead or until you have victory.’

With that, I watched the mighty beast turn and resume his ceaseless patrol of the touchline, his eyes focused on something in the distance that before I had not been able to discern. But now I knew that it was a yellow shirt with the Ox's head above the ford on its chest.

[A post in honour of Mark Creighton's service to Oxford this season. Rhys Day and Jake Wright have formed a formidable centre back pairing, and one couldn't argue with that. But in the same way that we wouldn't contest the fox hunting ban, nevertheless the sight of Mark Creighton playing for his place in an FA trophy game seems as sad a sight as a pack of hunting dogs chasing a bag of sand.

Image credits: Image of polar bear adapted from a photograph by douglasperkins courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; images of Mark Creighton courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Desire brings results at home to Rushden

2010-02-16T22:44:00.003Z

(Performances are one thing, but it's all about a mindset now)

Victory at home to Histon beneath constantly shifting skies

2010-02-14T11:23:00.002Z

What we lost in the storm

2010-02-10T22:40:00.002Z

(A moment: but there are more to come, and they're not to be let slip so easily when we've come this far)

Top again at home to Kidderminster

2010-02-07T09:59:00.001Z

(But the only celebrations visible are pictures from a week ago)

Grays 0 - 4 Oxford

2010-01-23T22:10:00.002Z

After the snow, defeat at home to Tamworth

2010-01-17T09:31:00.004Z

(Oxfordshire had started to look familiarly unfamiliar under its sheet of snow, but the world hasn't changed. There's a campaign to fight.)

Romulus and Remus

2010-01-02T01:59:00.005Z

'To antiquity we grant the indulgence of making the origins of cities more impressive by commingling the human with the divine, and if any people should be permitted to sanctify its inception and reckon the gods as its founders, surely the glory of the Roman people in war is such that, when it boasts Mars in particular as its parent and the parent of its founders, the nations of the world would as easily acquiesce in this claim as they do in our rule.'

- The Rise of Rome

1. How this new age of Oxford was founded is not agreed amongst observers: for while many great players were present for some time before the dawning of this age, yet they could not then acquit themselves with true honour on the field of play. 2. Perhaps the reason which should be given the widest credence is the meeting of the brothers-in-arms; Clist and Bulman.

3. Some are suspicious of the fictitious and fabulous qualities of this story: how the brothers were found cast out in the wilderness of forests green or reduced to crawling on their belly for scraps. 4. Yet we should not be incredulous when we see what a poet fortune sometimes is, and when we reflect that this new age of Oxford would not have attained to its present power, had it not been of a divine origin, and one which was attended by great marvels. 5. That they were suckled by a she-wolf in the shade of a wild fig tree would scarce be believed, until we reflect on their qualities: the ferocity of Bulman, or the cunning of Clist. For the noble size and beauty of their bodies betokened their natural disposition, and when they achieved adolescence, they were both of them courageous and manly, with spirits which courted apparent danger, and a daring which nothing could terrify. 6. But Clist seemed to exercise his judgement more, and to have political sagacity, while Bulman’s strength and ferocity ruled his nature.

7. Historians have long debated the greater of the two.

8. To the observer first sighting the pair in battle, it is Bulman whose demeanour draws the eye. Tenacious and ferocious in his tackling, harrying his opponents wheresoever they are to be found, his fearsome prowess in the centre of the fight is seared into the mind for friend and foe alike, as when he fought all comers from Stevenage. 9. Yet where Bulman clears the way, it is Clist who prepares the attack for Oxford, his passing drawing his fellow men into the fray, and occasionally joining the raid himself, penetrating his opponents’ defences with his cutting runs, and unleashing volleys from distance to their dismay.

10. Were they to clash, as Romulus and Remus once did to decide the direction of the people they led, who would prevail to lead our new empire? 11. According to one account, Bulman is destined to embody the spirit of the club, the Bull of his name answering to the Ox of ours. 12. But it is impossible to say. Whereas it is known the world over what glory accrued to Rome once Romulus prevailed in his quarrel with Remus over the founding of Rome following his mendacity, the truth is that Clist and Bulman’s glory is entwined in their very partnership in the heat of battle; and to separate the two is to sow the seeds of turmoil for Oxford. To remove Clist would be to lose our guile that undoes the enemy; to remove Bulman would to see this guile smothered by the barbaric hordes of those who would oppose this new age of civilisation.

[Image credits: Images of Romulus and Remus by Giovanni Dall'Orto (photograph of the Fountain in Piazza del Campidoglio (Rome) and Rubens courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; images of Danny Bulman and Simon Clist courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission]

Salisbury 1 - 1 Oxford

2009-12-30T10:57:00.003Z

(A glimpse of a way through the woods; snow clinging to the ground.)

Reading photographs: Moments in time

2009-12-13T03:22:00.003Z

A photograph is a moment in time. From the second it is taken it is history. When we look at these images, we read them with the wisdom that comes with the knowledge of what was to come next.

This moment is in the seconds before kick off for the final game of Oxford's 2008-09 season, against Northwich Victoria. Billy Turley hugs his two daughters closer to him as the noise in the ground builds to its crescendo. One tucks her head into his shoulder to hide, the other looks tentatively towards the London Road in full voice. A moment of privacy as Turley kisses the head of one, but his gaze is already turned towards the site of the very public moments to come. He eyes the goal in which he is soon to concede the first goal of the afternoon, puncturing the pressure that has built over the last six months.

Turley's body attempts to trace a sphere of protection, of reassurance, or of privacy around his daughters as he brings them into this very public arena. One of them looks with trepidation around her: it contrasts with Turley's look of grim determination to ensure there is only one result that afternoon. But our knowledge of what is to come is the knowledge of two goals he conceded, that what was always only ever at our fingertips finally slipped from our grasp, and that his opposite number would oust him from his position in the team.

We dwell on moments such as these as tendrils seem to flow from them; they seem somehow more pregnant than other moments. That sense in your stomach as you watched Turley take his daughters out onto the Minchery Farm pitch was the knowledge that the narrative of a season was more obviously in the balance than perhaps it had been all season. On one side lay everything you wanted: everything Billy Turley wanted too, probably.

On another lay a fourth season in the Conference, and an FA trophy first round game for which 1,663 people would turn up to see Billy Turley finally be allowed to return to the Oxford side: a sole remnant of the days when we were a League club.

[The above picture is courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission.]

Dark night of the soul at Barrow

2009-12-09T12:54:00.004Z

[Fuego de Noche by Goya, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

The sublime followed by the ridiculous at home to Ebbsfleet

2009-12-07T19:28:00.003Z

Back on the march at Crawley

2009-12-01T23:59:00.001Z

Ten men in touching distance at home to Barrow

2009-11-29T10:32:00.001Z

A light gleams an instant at the New Lawn

2009-11-26T07:28:00.004Z

Winter grind drawing in at home to Barrow

2009-11-24T14:05:00.004Z

Defeat at Kidderminster played to a stormy backdrop once again

2009-11-16T20:33:00.004Z

(But clouds pass, and there's always a new day)

Remnants of another time at home to Yeovil in the Cup

2009-11-08T06:32:00.001Z

(On the outside and looking in, but working on it)

Sammy dans la Stade

2009-11-05T07:50:00.006Z

"'Don't give a damn, what I wanted was to go in the Metro.'"

- Zazie in the Metro

‘Howcanitstinkso?’ wondered Sammy. The bus doors open and Sammy skipped from the steps onto the pavement. He looked around: nothing was happening. Spotting the fludlites between the towerblock and rooftop, he weeves across the road and into the estate opposite. Here, likewise, there seemed to be nothing happening. A man across the street unloaded shopping bags from his car; Sammy skims round the corner. A path and a bridge across a dribble of a river, and Sammy discovers the objective of his excursion: the stadium rises up in front of him.

Sammy scuffs his heels as he starts to walk round the ground, glancing through the mesh doors and pondering. Unzipping the holdall on his shoulder, he scoops a football out and up into the air, before starting to gently kick it from foot to foot as he ambulls along. Lost in the pleasure of this, he rounds the corner and heads towards the glass eddyfizz before him.

It was then that Sammy noticed the white piece of paper taped above a window in a wall, inscribed in inkjet: ‘OXFORD vs. THURROCK FA CUP EAST STAND TICKETS £12’. The ball dropped to the flaw, and rolled away. Approaching the sign, throat dry with emotion, Sammy stood, re-reading.

His study of the paper was interrupted as a man approached.

‘Alright Sam.’ says the man.
‘Alright.’
‘Back then, are you?’ asks the man. ‘How was Nooport?’
‘(gesture)’
‘There’s a training ball here.’ says the man, bending down to pick up Sam’s football.
‘Znot a training ball, zmine.’ says Sam.
‘You know we’ve got plenty of footballs here.’ Laughs the man.
‘I like having one to kick.’ shrugs Sam.
‘(gesture)’
‘Home cup game then,’ says Sam. ‘when’s the team anownsed?’
‘Already is. Sheet sup.’

Sam grabs his ball, stuffs it in his bag, and barrels into the stadium through the glass doors. Round the corner through the corridor past the office round another corner to the office on the right, flies to a stop in front of the notisbored and the printed sheet. Starting from the top, he reads down, and further down, past the heading ‘Subs’, until his eyes finally alight on ‘Deering, S.’. He stares. And stares. Before finally he turns back the way he came, ball at his feet, playing one-twos with the wall, lost in a daze. Finally back.

A door slams.

‘Nofuckingfootballsinthefuckingcorridors!’

‘Sorryboss’, calls Sammy over his shoulder, feet still attached to the ball, thoughts deflected, passing over cross-field balls and shots from outside the box.

[Picture credits: Top photo cropped from a photo by Jean-Alexis Aufauvre, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; Images of Sam Deering courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, and reproduced here with kind permission.]

Oxford 1 - 0 Altrincham

2009-10-31T19:47:00.003Z

Reading photographs: The geometry of a photo

2009-10-27T11:15:00.004Z

The emotion of this photo is immediate: Green runs arms outstretched, Creighton bellows defiance, and Oxford's supporters rise as one to acclaim the unlikely. But the photographer's decision to keep the players and the pitch to the bottom third of his photo leaves a geometry to this photo: a plane provides the meeting point for three vectors.

Scattered over the pitch, York defenders have collapsed, defeated, sunk into the background. Mark Creighton has just scored the winning goal late in the game, and leads a line of Oxford players. Danny Bulman and Matt Green follow their own lines to this point. There seems an implicit knowledge of where they are heading, they meet at a point on the plane in front of them. That plane rises in front of them, dwarfing them: the supporters rising from their seats, arms aloft, mouths open mirroring the roar of Creighton.

A plane can be unlimited in its extension: this picture doesn't show whether or where it stops. Vectors, however, meet at a point. The players are individual representatives on the pitch of this bank of supporters, a plane which might continue indefinitely: the discrete part and the whole. In this picture we see the size of the players dwarfed by the supporters, but emotionally there is a mirroring; and geometrically, a union.

[The above photo is © Lewis Outing LRPS CPAGB, and reproduced here with his kind permission. See more of his photography here: http://www.mainlyfax.fotopic.net]

The FA Cup prompts comparisons with this time last year

2009-10-25T21:38:00.003Z

(A sense of calm prevails)

Reading photographs/Away at York

2009-10-23T11:48:00.000+01:00

Posts have been a bit sporadic of late, for which we're sorry; it's not been for want of things to think about at Oxford, more a lack of time. We hope to be back up and running again shortly, but in the meantime, we've been mulling over a new idea.

We were interested to read OUFC's chairman write at some length in the Stevenage programme about a particular photo from the season's opening game. It was, of course, a game that was potent in symbolism, narrative, and ultimately drama, and Kelvin Thomas' words related that photo to what he saw as the club's aims. We were interested that he spent some time talking about an image, which of course has been a core focus of this site, but we also see a burgeoning interest in images and imagery around the club as banners and standards spring up with increasing frequency and imagination, and away games seem to prompt new visual celebrations of our club.

We Are Oxford United has always been interested in these images and symbols, and tried to steer away from photos of what takes place on the pitch. However, we thought we might start publishing a series of occasional posts that look at images of this Oxford side, but try to understand them as symbols rather than simple records of a moment in time. We thought we might as well start with that fantastic image that Kelvin Thomas wrote about - it'll follow next week.

p.s. if you're interested in what we thought of York: it feels strange that our scheduled league games with this club are out of the way already, particularly given how hard and closely fought they've been. Perhaps it's just that, but something tells us that that York side will yet have an important role to play in the eventual outcome of our season.

[Portrait of Man Ray and Salvador Dali, Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Carl Van Vechten Collection, LC-USZ62-42535 DLC (b&w film copy neg.), courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons. The image's integrity has been retained.]

Oxford 5 - 0 Grays

2009-10-10T22:01:00.002+01:00

(Is it possible to talk at the moment about this Oxford United squad without sounding messianic?)

Barrow away: a distant end and an uncertain road

2009-10-05T19:35:00.007+01:00

(Awkward opponents provide a salutary reminder that we have still much to come before we reach the end of the season)

Oxford overcome Crawley at home

2009-09-29T23:08:00.006+01:00

('The triumphing of the wicked is short, the joy of the hypocrite is but for a moment.')

[William Blake's illustration of Job 7:14 courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Gateshead 0 - 1 Oxford

2009-09-28T22:06:00.002+01:00

Dark clouds shroud the sky at Mansfield

2009-09-23T10:11:00.004+01:00

(A first defeat of the season for Oxford; they go down fighting.)

Oxford 4 - 0 Eastbourne

2009-09-21T11:07:00.002+01:00

History is quietly cast to one side as Oxford win at the Racecourse

2009-09-13T09:21:00.003+01:00

Oxford through the looking glass at home to Luton

2009-09-09T13:46:00.004+01:00

(Luton show us how we looked three seasons ago)

[Sir John Tenniel's illustration from Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

After the first half at Ebbsfleet, thoughts drift away...

2009-09-06T15:08:00.003+01:00

(...in the direction of Bedfordshire and Wales...)

After the return of the prodigal son

2009-09-03T07:00:00.001+01:00

‘I gave them happiness, but I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me. Not quite, not yet’

- Atonement

I’ve been standing at the mouth of the tunnel, feeling the waves of post-match fatigue wash over me, as I look at the penalty area in front of the East Stand. Thinking of goals from the last few weeks; thinking of goals from two years ago.

It’s been a month now, a month of trying to do what I’ve wanted to do for some time. Not to go back to that time two years ago, although I would be a liar if I were to deny I would do it if I could, but to find some kind of atonement for what came after.

The problem for this month has been this: how can a footballer achieve atonement for the past when forgiveness seems to only live in the present, so fleetingly? How many of these moments must there be before there can be atonement? The supporters may forget the past in the moment I score a goal, but can they ever really forgive? As the euphoria dies, is there not a look that tells me they can’t quite give themselves entirely to the moment - not yet - as I once didn’t give myself to them?

Perhaps it was always an impossible task, and perhaps that is precisely the point. The attempt was all. I can give them happiness, but I am not so self-serving as to let them forgive me. Not quite, not yet.

If I have the power, I would conjure them at a promotion party in April… a spring day at Minchery, milky sunlight slanting across the pitch, the supporters, jubilant in the stands, a sea of yellow as we confirm the championship? It’s not impossible.

(The images of Matt Green in this post are courtesy of Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with kind permission.)

A good day for symbolism at Oxford

2009-09-01T21:09:00.005+01:00

(We are the 12th man.)

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WAOU news: this season's first Occasional Pen Portrait coming shortly.

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Creative failure against Forest Green Rovers

2009-08-31T20:03:00.000+01:00

A bout of nerves at Kingsmeadow

2009-08-30T14:22:00.001+01:00

(Histories collided, and nerves can betray a fear of failure, or indicate the knowledge that something of importance is at stake.)

Planting a marker in the ground at home to Stevenage

2009-08-23T22:35:00.003+01:00

Oxford 4 - 0 Chester

2009-08-19T07:36:00.005+01:00

(Sometimes it's hard to see much other than the players on the pitch)

Through a glass darkly at Histon

2009-08-15T21:43:00.003+01:00

1-1 away at Kettering

2009-08-11T22:12:00.003+01:00

(It feels like a solid, old school, reliable sort of result: honours should be even, hands should be shaken)

Opening day at home to York: L'esprit de la saison dernière

2009-08-08T19:54:00.007+01:00

(It didn't die that day in April)

Summer, the earth stirs

2009-07-18T20:51:00.003+01:00

(This summer the breeze rifles through the leaves of trees; its seeming impatience growing it buffets their branches. The earth stirs from its somnolence with the haste of a child suddenly free to leave his last schoolclass of the day: snatching his bag up, pens fly as he wheels round his chair. Day-dreaming is over: The Season is fast upon us.)

What can we say about Oxford United? Part III: Blogs, the group, and the self

2009-06-26T08:40:00.002+01:00

In one sense a blog is simply a piece of webspace where one can store and display various bits of text, images, and sound. Yet a blog invites the use of the first-person narrator, it calls for the expression of feeling, opinion, emotion, in a way that a news site is not. The self is always there; the self is at once the subject and the object. One could then ask of what value is this kind of expression? Is Manuel Castells right when he says that ‘…a significant share of this form of mass self-communication is closer to “electronic autism” than to actual communication.’?

One answer is that to the extent that others identify with this subjective view, there’s value. And in this search for identification and difference, we see a parallel in a football crowd. At any moment one finds people of different backgrounds, different views, different values, and yet what attracts so many people to follow a football club is a sense of unity. Vociferous disagreements are held about the talents of a particular player, the merits of a particular manager, the wisdom of a particular tactic, and yet, for the most part, we can be as one on the terrace. We are the Left Side/We are the Right side: but, We are The London Road.

We Are Oxford United: This title was intended at once to be a claim of possession, but also a nod to this sense of universality. We wanted anyone who follows Oxford United to look at the things we present here, and recognise in them something they know, something they are a part of. Where can this universality come from?

As we talked about in our last post, one important factor is the context in which these games of football we watch take place in. Without supporters, without a league, without desire, you just have 22 men moving a ball round a pitch.

But perhaps the most important piece of context is the past. This is something we saw in what Oxblogger was doing in his favourite posts of ours, the ones we found ourselves identifying with most strongly (such as this, this, this, but especially, this). For the experience of the Oxford United supporter watching the team, as I would guess for all supporters, the past is always present. The players, team, manager, ground, club: they all change, but these are only so many pieces of tracing paper layered over whatever it is that lies at the bottom of this all. It’s this that we glimpse on occasion through these pieces of paper: it portrays a new scene, but visible through it is something we recognise, something we find all-too familiar.

And in the end, that’s what we tried to do last season: to find whatever it is that lies at the bottom of all this. Or not to find it, but to try and allow us, and anyone following this, to glimpse it. Because we’ve become started to realise that what we want to convey can’t be looked at directly, and it can’t be written down. It’s there at the back of your mind: it’s there in the corner of your eye. That’s how we’d like you to look at this blog: subconsciously, with the corner of your eye. If you find that you can see what we’re getting at, then we’ll have managed to say something about Oxford United.

The return of Matt Green

2009-06-22T13:12:00.005+01:00

('I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.'

- King James Bible, Luke 15: 18-19)

('The Lost Son' by Max Slevogt, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.)

What can we say about Oxford United? Part II: Content and context, seeming and meaning

2009-06-15T09:29:00.002+01:00

What do we talk about when we talk about football? The ball. A player. A coach. A ground. We could answer the question not just by saying that we talk about a range of subjects, but by saying that we talk about football on a range of levels. In our last post, we wrote about the intense focus of media on matches, the action of football. In that sense, we focus on a single moment of action, or ninety minutes of these continual actions.

On another level we can move back from the action slightly, and take a longer-term view, talking about qualities and their significance for a team or a club’s strategy. The short time of a match, or a period of the match, can mislead our judgement. A player can put in a terrible performance. A manager can stumble upon the right tactic, despite his strategic shortcomings. Talking about a series of matches reduces the role of fortune. Here we see that supporters tend to supply most of the analysis, whether we talk amongst ourselves, write on a message board, or post on a blog. We try to identify the essence of a player or a manager: what we can say holds true of them when the outlying instances of individual pieces of action are taken away, and we can view their performances from a more distanced perspective.

And we can talk about the context in which this action takes place: the surroundings, the supporters, hope, anxiety, and despair. These are subjects can be hard to talk about in a way that feels adequate, and the retreat to stock footballing phrases is all too easy. When so many games are ‘must wins’, when players and supporters are always ‘desperate’ for success, when we’re ‘gutted’ once again following defeat, these words become mundane as we move further and further away from any real awareness of what it was we felt, and why it was we felt so strongly.

But we think they’re perhaps the most important things to say about football, to explain it. The literal truth that football is just 22 men chasing a ball around is belied by this context. The collective emotion of a club provides the meaning to games, provides them with a purpose, explains why we can walk away from a defeat to Leyton Orient shrugging your shoulders and wondering where to go for a drink, and six months later walk away from the same result against the same side with a gnawing canker at the bottom of your stomach that you can't shake.

There is a mysterious alchemy that takes place at a football match.

To understand why football supporters find the game so important, you need to be within this context. There’s a paradox here at its heart: that football becomes overpoweringly meaningful to us because we allow it to; because we choose for it to. It derives its power over us from us. An entirely circular logic, absurd from without but inexorable from within: we could break the spell at any moment, but we don’t.

As the internet has facilitated and fed our need to talk about football, we’ve focused on ever greater minutiae, ever more analysis. It’s always there; there’s always one more opinion to read on whether Adam Murray will fit into Oxford’s midfield next season. And with this, we think two things have also happened. On the one hand, we rarely seem to have found a concurrent means of expression of the context of all this detail beyond our worn phrases, but on the other hand, the intense focus on every facet of Oxford United has created a community where we all share a detailed knowledge about all manner of things related to Oxford. It’s this community of shared knowledge that we think presents an opportunity to talk in a new way about Oxford, in a way that might let us explore not just its seeming, but its context and its meaning.

What can we say about Oxford United? Part I: Football writing and language

2009-06-02T10:49:00.008+01:00

What can we say about Oxford United? One response might be: a lot, apparently. Thousands of words are poured out every week by commentators on the activities of this football club in print and on the web. Within minutes of a ‘story’ being reported, you can usually go to three or four other websites that will report the self-same facts, often using pretty much the same words. But when we’re told, on the signing of two new players, that one describes himself as ‘…very energetic, I get up and down the park and I've got a never-say-die attitude.’, and the other contrasts himself as having ‘Lots of energy and a never-say-die attitude.’, what have we learnt here?

To some extent this is a problem with the language of football and football writing. Every skilled left-footed player is ‘cultured’, every struggling manager is in danger of ‘losing the dressing room’, and every striker who shows a propensity for scoring from within the six yard box is ‘a poacher’. Duncan Hamilton eloquently complains about the limited language deployed in the description of football in the first chapter in his book on Brian Clough (even if he then doesn’t live up to this weighty gauntlet he throws down for himself). But for the supporter, in the internet age, looking for this kind of news on Oxford United becomes like a dirty habit – the fix we secure is all too often too weak, and we’re driven back to scrabbling round for more. And that’s before we even start considering message boards.

It’s in this context that we’d like to spend a couple of posts considering what it is possible to say about Oxford United, and what we can say. Forgive the self indulgence. The close season provides a time to step back, and try and take an overview of what has passed before, and what we hope to achieve in the next season. We’ve found ourselves doing just that. We wrote before that this blog had originally intended as a one-season experiment, and had ended up doing things that hadn’t been originally envisaged. One of those things was to try to write in a more creative way, when we’re more used to a ‘critical’ tone. So this will be a brief return to some critical writing.

At the end of the season, we look around and find ourselves as one of a number of blogs on the subject of Oxford United. If we’re seeing the start of a growth of blogs about Oxford United, we think that these thousand electronic flowers should be encouraged to bloom. Blogs are by their nature of the moment, but momentary too. More importantly, we think they allow the potential to say something different, and differently, about Oxford United. The demise of an Oxford United fanzine has left a hole that blogs could fill, but in turn these blogs could open up new possibilities. That's what we'd like to consider over the next couple of weeks.

Last night I dreamt I went to Minchery again

2009-05-01T20:29:00.008+01:00

‘We can never go back, that much is certain. The past is still too close to us.’

- Rebecca

Last night I dreamt I went to Minchery again. It seemed to me, as I stood in front of the locked gates to the ground, that I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me.

The passage closed around me, cloistering me from the moonlight as it once had the sunlight, the air inside cooler and still. The blotched and stained concrete echoed slightly to my soft steps as I followed the way round to the left, past the shelves now empty of wrappers and bottles. Darkened doorways to booths and toilets and shuttered refreshment bars bore silent witness to my passage. The breeze blocks and sandy cement felt rough to the touch as ever, cold under my fingers. Signs that once guided now seemed to loom over me, their intentions redundant and unclear. I hurried through the shadows toward the pool of moonlight in front of me.

And then I turned to my right, and there was the pitch - our pitch - silent and suggestive as it had always been. A torn square of blue paper, missed by the groundstaff, scuttled past my feet, blown by a sudden breath of wind, and made for the darkened grass.

Moonlight can play odd tricks upon the fancy, even upon a dreamer’s fancy. As I stood there, hushed and still, I could swear that the ground was not empty, but lived and breathed as it had lived before. A slight sigh of wind ruffled the grass, and I saw the forms so familiar to me, in formation to take a free kick from the corner. The wind seemed to collect as a voice that cried out to them. A figure drove the ball low across the box, a foot connected with it, and it flew through a crowd and into the back of the goal. Figures wheeled away, seeming to revel in a sense of invincibility, others rushed to collect the ball, and from the privileged position of the dreamer, I saw the inexorable momentum of inevitable victory, certain as it had been many times before.

A cloud, hitherto unseen, came upon the moon, and hovered an instant like a dark hand before a face. The illusion went with it, and the figures disappeared. I looked upon a desolate shell, soulless at last, unhaunted, with no whisper of the past about its staring terraces.

[Some editorialisation that we usually try to avoid too much of:

For this piece we borrowed from our ‘inspiration’ even more so than usual, so if you liked some of that, you can probably be sure it was lifted pretty much straight from Rebecca, and we should make the debt to Daphne du Maurier even more explicit than we usually do for writers we use. It’s the close season: why not read or watch her story? It’s a dark, thrilling, some might even argue modernist, take on the romantic novel. And it seems appropriate to end our coverage for this season on a dark note for a romantic story, because that’s what we just witnessed. There is one more thing we might post here, but to be honest, the ending of the above piece reflects the way we feel right now: those of us who have followed this unlikely story through the season have been robbed of the chance to see if the most romantic of endings might yet have come about.

And the past is too close to us.

So, we’ll see you all at Court Place Farm again in a few months no doubt. The blog was intended as a one-season experiment. What was planned isn’t quite what we ended up doing, but we’ve enjoyed it, and so long as we feel we’re not repeating ourselves, there’ll be more. In the meantime, we’ll be making a few cosmetic changes over the summer, but mainly spending our time hoping to read and see interesting things. If you fancy doing the same and would like some ideas, then anything you’ve read on here and liked over the season was inspired by/pilfered from somewhere – search for the title after the quote at the start of the piece, or follow the links to our sources for the art.]

Pondering self-inflicted defeat at home to Northwich

2009-04-27T20:13:00.005+01:00

[Reflections on the season and a couple of other bits we would like to post will follow in the coming weeks.]

The world has moved and shifted around us

2009-04-21T22:22:00.007+01:00

(Our journey's end is obscured in the darkening distance, but the direction is now clear, and there are textures of light behind the clouds)

Head down, James Constable charges

2009-04-20T06:16:00.001+01:00

‘It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing –

‘Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Shake off dull sloth ...’’
- Adam Bede

The afternoon was cold, the cut of freezing air bit as James Constable looked round the pitch, dappled in dying afternoon sun, the Altrincham players preparing to face the goal kick. Close-cropped hair suggested a man for whom labour came before appearance, his face lean to his bones. While his brow was somewhat furrowed, the intent gaze betrayed concentration, not puzzlement.

A release of breathy steam formed in front of him as he paused: a moment of measurement required. For James Constable, a football match was not a work of art, but one of labour. It was to be worked at, the defence tested, gradually worn down. The defence was to be respected - its nature must guide the craftsman, direct his efforts; but, unstinting, he must bend the material at hand to his will.

It is only by working at the opposition that the craftsman starts to feel its knots and grains; where it will hold, where it is weak; where to apply the plane, and where the chisel. The ball must be chased to the corners, the goalkeeper’s claims contested, the centre halves' strength tested, the full back’s resolve checked. Gradually the shape of the task in hand becomes clear, and the finishing touches can be applied, before the craftsman can stand back to survey his work, wipe the sweat from his brow and the dirt from his body, and leave for his evening’s rest.

Perhaps there is such a thing as an artist; perhaps instinct can create something beautiful in a moment; perhaps inspiration can see what no one has seen before. Perhaps. But for the vast bulk of mankind, we are told one from the other by our endeavour, honesty, and toil.

James Constable stood back to survey the progress of his work so far. Great drops of sweat fell like blood from his shaved head as he shifted his weight back slightly. Heaving the fierce-sharpening air into his lungs once more, he watched the ball begin its driven flight forward to the opposition defence one more time. He picks the point at which to work, and dropping his head, pushes himself into a run once more. Head down, James Constable charges.

[Picture credits: Millet's L'homme à la houe and The Wood Sawyers courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons; Images of James Constable from Steve Daniels/Rage Online, reproduced here with permission; Youtube video courtesy of 'Deddington Steve'.]

A force of nature at Burton

2009-04-18T10:17:00.004+01:00

(How else to explain what has happened to this football club? Now all we can do is watch and wait, witness to things beyond our control and comprehension.)

Woking 0 - 2 Oxford

2009-04-13T21:44:00.006+01:00

(Sun shines on United, but the world around starts to loom large over Us)

Time slows at home to Wrexham

2009-04-12T09:45:00.006+01:00

(In the final moment the persecuted souls of Oxford supporters cry out, James Constable rises: there is silence, and then thunder.)

[El Greco's Opening of the Fifth Seal courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

York 0 - 0 Oxford

2009-04-07T21:57:00.008+01:00

('For at the very threshold of the day / Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve / He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice / His own once more. But even with the look /Poured out was all his labour, broken the bond / Of that fell tyrant, and a crash was heard / Three times like thunder in the meres of hell.'

- Virgil, Georgics)

(Orpheus and Eurydice by G. Kratzenstein-Stub courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons)

Everyone can see we can't do this

2009-04-05T09:11:00.007+01:00

(We're not everyone. If hope can be audacious, what about belief?)

Of Miracles

2009-04-01T10:32:00.014+01:00

[So, George Eliot still hasn’t delivered her piece (pull your finger out George, we’re terrified Constable will sign for someone else and we’ll be left with another gap in our, er, hectic publishing schedule), but we have more pressing matters to consider: the possibility that miracles might happen. As Oxford United have produced an incredible run of results, yet need a set of seemingly miraculous events to converge in order for anything to happen for them this season, We Are Oxford United considers this a topic of the utmost urgency. Where is the Oxford Mail on this?

We needed an expert on the subject, and more importantly, one who could turn in their copy sharpish. Step forward noted Scottish Enlightenment philosopher and critic, David Hume. This is a man who, when his first book ‘fell dead-born from the press’, simply chopped it in two, re-edited it, and published it as two books - which promptly took the 18th century coffee houses by storm. Now that’s the sort of writer We Are Oxford United could get on with. So, we’ve asked Hume to consider, on the principles of his famous consideration of miracles, whether or not Chris Wilder (m’Lord) is the next messiah and can bring miraculous events to the county of Oxfordshire, or whether we need to be awoken from our dogmatic slumbers.]

‘It is strange a judicious reader is apt to say, upon the perusal of these wonderful histories, that such prodigious events never happen in our days.’

- An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding

A wise man proportions his belief to the evidence. In such conclusions as are founded on an infallible experience, he expects the event with the last degree of assurance, and regards his past experience as a full proof of the future existence of that event. In other cases, he proceeds with more caution: He weighs the opposite experiments: He considers which side is supported by the greater number of experiments: to that side he inclines, with doubt and hesitation; and when at last he fixes his judgement, the evidence exceeds not what we properly call probability.

To apply these principles to a particular instance; we may observe, that there is no species of reasoning more common, more useful, and even necessary to human life, that that which is derived from the testimony of men, and the reports of eye-witnesses and spectators. Yet we frequently hesitate concerning the reports of others. We balance the opposite circumstances which cause any doubt or uncertainty; and when we discover a superiority on any side, we incline to it; but still with a diminution of assurance, in proportion to the force of its antagonist.

I should not believe such a story were it told me by Jon Murray was a proverbial saying in Oxford, even during the lifetime of that venerable historian. The incredibility of a fact, were it allowed, might invalidate so great an authority.

The Oxford supporter, who refused to believe that United could win away at Crawley, reasoned justly; and it naturally required very strong testimony to engage his assent to the facts, that arose from a state of nature, with which he was unacquainted, and which bore so little analogy to those events of which he had constant and uniform experience. Though Oxford winning at Crawley was not contrary to his experience, it was not conformable with it.

But now let us suppose that a fact, which witnesses affirm, instead of only being marvellous, is really miraculous; and suppose also, that the testimony considered apart and in itself, amounts to an entire proof; in that case, there is proof against proof, of which the strongest must prevail.

A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and as a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very experience of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined. Thus no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous, than the fact which it endeavours to establish.

When anyone tells me that that he saw a dead man restored to life, or that their football team has turned around an appalling run of form over a half a season to achieve promotion, I immediately consider with myself, whether it be more probable that this person should either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact, which he relates, should really have happened. I weigh the one miracle against the other, and according to the superiority, which I discover, I pronounce my decision, and always reject the greater miracle. If the falsehood of his testimony would be more miraculous, than the event which he relates; then, and not till then, can he pretend to command my belief or opinions.

I am better pleased with the method of reasoning here delivered, as I think it may serve to confound those dangerous friends or disguised enemies to the Commonwealth of Oxford United, who have undertaken to defend it by the principles of human reason. Our most holy cause is founded on Faith, not on reason; and it is a sure method of exposing it to put it to such a trial as it is, by no means, fitted to endure. To make this more evident, let us examine the miracles, related in what Oxford need to do for the rest of the season, and we shall examine it according to these pretended supporters, not as the testimony of God or Fate itself, but as the mere production of probability.

Here then, we are to consider a story, presented with no corroborating facts, which many football teams claim as a past myth. Upon hearing it, we find it full of prodigies and miracles. It gives an account of a football team entirely different from the first half of the season: Of dominant home performances: Of determination unseen by men in yellow: Of not only points gained away from home, but on many occasions three; at places such as Crawley, Kettering, and Rushden: Of a consistency of success such that so few points dropped they may be counted on one hand: Of a striker with a goalscoring record of more than 20 in a season: Of not just one rival team falling away at the vital moment, but many: And of a team who do not allow the pressure to affect their performances. I desire any one to lay his hand upon his heart, and after a serious consideration declare, whether he thinks that the falsehood of such a story would be more extraordinary and miraculous than all the miracles it relates.

Yet of course, our most holy religion of Oxford United is clearly attended with miracles, and we may conclude that mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity; And whoever is moved by Faith to assent to it, is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience.

[Details from images of Christ's Ascension from the Rabula Gospels and of 'The Resurrection of Lazarus' by Bonnat, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.]

Waiting for a miracle at Stevenage

2009-03-29T23:07:00.003+01:00

(From our men we saw resolution in the face of superior numbers from Stevenage, the whimsy of officials, and hail from the heavens: but we'd come for miracles)

One slip and the season's over: Glimpsing the abyss at Rushden

2009-03-25T22:49:00.003Z

Away at Kettering: Oxford still travelling

2009-03-21T09:00:00.002Z

(Destination still unclear)

Grays at home: Oxford still travelling

2009-03-15T17:41:00.003Z

(Destination unclear)

Away at FGR part ii: Ten to five

2009-03-07T20:23:00.001Z

Away at FGR part i: We Are Oxford United statistics special!

2009-03-07T20:20:00.003Z

Oxford weather the tempest to emerge victorious at Eastbourne

2009-03-05T20:08:00.004Z

('...this swift business I must uneasy make, Lest too light winning make the prize light.')

[Waterhouse's Miranda courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.]

Oxford 0 - 2 Torquay

2009-03-02T18:23:00.008Z

(Turns out Daphne du Maurier was on to something.)

[Image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons.]

The methadone metronome

2009-02-26T06:50:00.000Z

[Ed.: In a radical move to reposition ourselves from an odd cranny of the internet to ‘content provider’, We Are Oxford United attempted to commission a match preview for Oxford’s game on Saturday against Torquay, which is being broadcast on Setanta from 5.45. The process was an experience of such drawn-out frustration that I can’t promise the experiment will be repeated, but given the amount in fees and expenses that we paid for this piece, we might as well run with it.]

'...what kind of sick and twisted impulse would cause a professional sportswriter to deliver a sermon from the Book of Revelations off his hotel balcony on the dawn of Super Sunday?'

- Fear and Loathing at the Super Bowl

‘Jesus, I’ve been stuck in this breeze block disaster on the edge of Oxford for a day now, with this goddamn blog editor busting my balls for 500 words. On football for crissakes. Non-league football. ‘Holiday Inn’ my goddamn ass.

For reasons I’d rather not go into right now, these 500 words are going to need to get written tonight, and my expenses have been spent in the pitiful excuse for a bar downstairs, getting angrier and angrier. Now I’m staring out at the soft orange light that’s trying to suffuse the three-sided hulk across the car park from my window. By my side is the three-quarter drunk remnants of what I could prise from the barman, and I’m thinking that I can’t be here at the weekend for this game.

How did this football club get into this mess? Non-league football is mostly terrible, we know this, but if the appeal isn’t the ‘football’ of FC, it’s meant to be about the ‘club’ part – something bigger than eleven men on a pitch. That’s what this swine of an editor tells me he wants. The things that keep supporters following their team if they’re not paying to watch eleven ball wizards break the laws of physics in a premier electric-superdome. I should have a story here about terrace camaraderie, about the players who grew up watching from the stands the team that they now play for. But I’m just getting depressed here. Depressed and angry.

This outpost of sport has the worst of both worlds. Tomorrow, two teams of footballers who never made it or probably never will (honest journeymen and local young hopefuls these notes say), will compete. But where’s the experience of football at its simplest? Where are these Halcyon Days? I’ve seen tapes of these televised games: Games played on Friday nights, Sunday afternoons – Jesus - Thursday nights? Players can’t put their asses on the substitutes bench without being interviewed. Kick-offs timed to accommodate stunts involving giant foam square creatures. Second-rate presenters, exuding the violent mix of failed dreams and desperate eagerness, trying to imitate the vacuousness that has been perfected in that bubble of self-reference, the Premiership. The Barclays Premier League, if you please, that’s if Barclays hasn’t been swallowed in the howling vortex that has finally caught up with those bastards in Wall Street (but you know for a fact that the Premier League boards will survive this, as they would probably survive any catastrophic collapse of the ozone layer or nuclear strike that might occur too).

But that’s not what I wanted to write about. What I wanted to say, was that all the time this swill is broadcast, the non-league grounds are half-empty as the option of watching this charade is less painful when you don’t have to move from your sofa. Non-league football has sold what it offered for a pat on the head, a chance to pretend it’s not what it is, and it’s been left with the worst of both worlds. The football is still non-league, still left trying to make up for what it lacks in skill with earnest effort, but fixtures are moved on a whim, driven by the hollow spirit of commercialism which watches over proceedings. The bloodshot eye of the television camera leaches those poor dingbats who are at the games: ‘Look how much this means to them. Look at their innocent joy. Look at the depths of their despair. It’s not even caused by anything important, like Manchester United beating West Brom. We will broadcast this for you! The viewer!’

So I’m not doing this. I need to be on a beach, trying to recover from this trip. Well, that and the fact that I’ve an appointment at a particular Jamaican drinking establishment in town, a place where all this trouble began. Ah… but that is another story, and we don’t have time for it here, so I’m giving that bastard editor these words and he can do what the hell he likes with them.’

[Ed.: Well, it might not be the only reason, but T.V. is one of the reasons why less than ten percent of our county actually goes to an Oxford United game.]

THIS WEEK ON WE ARE OXFORD UNITED

2009-02-23T19:56:00.010Z

WAOU has started to realise over the last month that it feels far more eloquent on the subjects of failure, flaws, and disappointment, and has struggled to convey some of the bouyant optimism and general joie de vivre that Chris Wilder and the team he has assembled have delivered of late. We're sorry, and can only offer the general experience of the last ten years or so as one reason why we might find it easier to speak a more bitter language.

After a series of hurried editorial meetings and impromptu focus groups (okay, we got stuck next to some drunk bloke in the Blackbird), we decided this site needs 'repositioning'. Apparently, 'moving forward', we need to 'add value' to the 'supporter experience', providing a home for the bright future of Chris Wilder's Yellow Army. Right here on We Are Oxford United!

And we also promise to really try and stop expecting it all to go horribly wrong.

This new editorial direction starts ahead of our game against Torquay on Saturday, and make no mistake, this is A Big One - in front of the television cameras no less. A 'Setanta Super Slam Saturday' or something like that I expect. Rockin' n Rollin' Oxford find themselves pitched against their Nemesis of this season, Torquay, in a game that will provide a test of the established and aspirant play-off credentials of Torquay and Oxford, respectively. Setanta will be building up to this with a high-tempo montage of balls hitting the back of the net, fans gasping, and players celebrating, and WAOU will be the place to come for the blog version of this, as we've commissioned Dr. Hunter S. Thompson to provide us with a match preview, and you just know he's going to get excited about it. Keep your mojo wire tuned to this frequency, we're going to hype this game to within an inch of its televised life.

While we're on the subject of things forthcoming on WAOU, in keeping with our efforts to refocus exclusively on the positives at Oxford United, we've got the latest in our occasional pen portraits coming. George Eliot takes a look at The Goal Machine That Is James Constable This Season, and we've told her not to use any of that overdone fairy tale inspired nonsense, either. Where else are you going to find this kind of insight into all your OUFC heroes? We almost feel that we need to design one of those title sequences that would crash on to your computer screen with the sound of tonnes of granite landing on granite: JAMES CONSTABLE. EXCLUSIVELY. ON WAOU. BANG. BANG. BANG. THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF A DEAD VICTORIAN NOVELIST. BANG.

On a slightly more downbeat note, WAOU was saddened to read that James Clarke has been told he won't have his contract renewed at Oxford. It's probably symptomatic of Oxford doing so much better that a number of WAOU favourites have been released by Wilder (we didn't even have time to publish our piece on Phil Trainer), but if Chris Wilder does read overblown football websites, we'd really like him to urge him to reconsider this particular decision. We wrote a while ago that his heart alone could be the encapsulation the spirit of an Oxford side, and we stand by this.

Joy is unconfined at home against Mansfield

2009-02-22T09:58:00.001Z

Oxford 3 - 0 Barrow: Six consecutive league wins at home

2009-02-16T20:28:00.005Z

(Shake us not from this charm'd sleep, lest we wake and the world do greet.)

[Painting by Johann Heinrich Füssli, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

A pause in play

2009-02-12T18:59:00.005Z

'I think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves.'

-Harold Pinter

HP: We could go and see a play.

Silence.

HP: We went to see a play once before.
Pause.
That time when we were over for a game in Cambridge.
SB: Did we so?
HP: Yes! You remember. Freezing. That small chap scored for us. What was his name?
SB: I don’t remember.
HP: You do. Useless bugger most of the time, but he could hit a ball on the volley.
SB: I don’t remember.
HP: Scored about two goals in his whole time with us, but both were absolute crackers.
Pause.

SB: You might mean Rawle.
HP: Was it? I don’t remember.
Pause.
Anyway, we went to see a play.
SB: A play? In Cambridge?
HP: Yes! Come on, you remember. It was when that tall black guy… what was his name… scored in the derby… Louis. Louis was substituted twice! On and off!
SB: That wasn’t Cambridge.
HP: Wasn’t it? The one where Louis was substituted on and off? You must remember. Brainless bugger if ever I saw one. Anyway, he’s brought on in the second half, but blow me if he isn’t worse than useless, and the manager hauls him off again ten minutes later!
SB: It was Bristol.
Pause.
Bristol Rovers.
HP: Rovers? The one where Rawle scored, and Louis was substituted twice? On and off?
SB: Yes.
HP: Bristol? Where Louis was substituted twice?

Silence.

HP: Was that the season they were almost relegated, but they came to our place and won one-nil?
SB: No…
Pause.
That was the season before.
HP: The season before. They came to our place and won one-nil. Bloody useless they were, but that bugger from Wycombe… what was his name?..

Silence.

SB: Rammell.
HP: Rammell! That bugger from Wycombe, Rammell, scored against us when they hadn’t had a chance all game. Bloody useless they were. Mind you, not as bloody useless as our lot that day. They wouldn’t have been able to have finished their tea.

Silence.

Bloody useless.

Silence.

Just think, if they’d not won then, they might have been relegated. Strange to think of Rovers going through all that, and us with it all to come. It’s strange how things turn out, isn’t it?

Silence.

I suppose you only think of how things look from your perspective at the time. We needed the points to get into the play offs, but they needed the points to stay up, and I couldn’t have given two hoots about it. And there we were, five years later, needing the points to stay up when Orient…
SB: Three.
HP: What?
SB: Three years later.
HP: There we were, three years later, needing a win to stay in the League, and Orient, Orient needed the points to go up. I thought they were all callous bastards, but I suppose it’s all just perspective. Strange how things turn out.

Silence.

Strange what your mind gets to turning over when it’s allowed.

Silence.

Jesus, I wish they’d get a game on. I can’t bear not having a game to go to. What’s it like out there, nice?
SB: The same.
HP: Oh.
Pause.
Do you think they’ll get the game on this weekend?

Silence.

So shall we go and see a play instead then?

Silence.

Come on, we’ve got to do something to fill the time.
SB: We always find something. Something to fill the time.
Pause.
HP: …I suppose we do.

A Bleak Beauty

2009-02-04T00:01:00.006Z

'...exiled on the edge of the city, isolated and exposed to the elements, the stadium looming defiantly over the land around it.'

[We Are Oxford United is as surprised as anyone to find that we may be talking ourselves into some kind of sentiment for our home at Minchery. Or perhaps it's just because we've been winning some games there. The music used in the film is 'Godzilla vs. Kathleen Hanna' by Sunnyvale Noise Sub-element, and used with kind permission.]

Realising the fragility of our position at home against Lewes

2009-02-02T08:42:00.003Z

(...a sense of something slipping, or something slippery, a just-melting icicle held in mittens...)

[Icicle image courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Cambridge 1 - 1 Oxford

2009-01-30T07:30:00.001Z

(Standing defiant)

Welcome to the Chinese year of the ox

2009-01-26T00:01:00.003Z

(In the gutter, but we look to the stars and dream...)

[Image of ox clan emblem courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons]

Oxford beat Crawley. Away.

2009-01-24T16:56:00.003Z

Witnessing an attacking second half of football at home against Forest Green Rovers

2009-01-21T22:17:00.004Z

(We walked away with a smile, and a feeling that perhaps all was not lost; The stadium lights cast an ethereal light on the houses.)

James Constable leads Oxford from the front to victory against Altrincham

2009-01-18T11:41:00.005Z

(Football is a team game, but occasionally this can be overshadowed as one man seems to stand alone, head down, driven.)