Hornet loses its sting!!!

"Stu, let the lads know that we will be hanging Harry the Hornet at High-Noon on Saturday, also as Chairman, give the Watford Observer a call and see if they want to come along and cover the story”. Phone calls with Gregg are normally far more sensible and the unusual thing about this idea is that it is normally me who comes up with stupid suggestions, much to the bewilderment of those that travel with the SEP.

I suppose it all started about 11 years ago on a mundane trip to Southend for a rather dull 0-0 draw. In those days I travelled alone from Kent and knew very few regular away travellers. As usual I went for a couple of pints before the game and thought the lager I was drinking was stronger than advertised when I started chatting with a large group of Poolies who all had Cockney accents. These boys turned out to be the Watford Lads and their unofficial leader was Gregg. I have come to know the group very well over the years and regularly meet them at away games. Gregg runs the William Morris Labour Club not far from Watford and had always promised that if his dreams come true of Pools playing the Hornets then he would put on a ‘bit of a do’ for Poolies.

As soon as the draw was made plans were put in place to and we expected a couple of dozen SEP members and friends to be at the club for a few pre-match drinks. Then came the phone call from Gregg and everything then spiralled out of control. The Watford Observer got in touch to say they were very interested in covering the story and a coach load of Poolies got in touch to say they would be attending the event after seeing it advertised in the SEP Ground Guide.

By 11.50am on the day there was around 80 Poolies, a handful of locals and H’Angus all baying for Hornet blood as the press turned up for a very public hanging. After a few photos and many questions it was time to do the wicked deed. The idea was that H’Angus would climb the steps and end the victims misery, but he wimped out saying his feet were too big to go up. It was then left to me, who if I had known I would be climbing the ladders, wouldn’t have had at least

2 of the previous pints. Typically as I was hanging on to the ladder with one hand and trying to hang the blighter with the other whilst having to put up with the mindless majority shaking the ladders.

The sympathetic crowd watched the poor Hornet hang whilst chanting “hang him, hang him, hang him”, proving once again that we are a friendly bunch us Hartlepool fans.

Homer

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