Away Day Wiz Diaries #16 – Sheffield United 1-0 Luton

With Alan on holiday, our editor picked up the baton for what was a coachless journey - of course, Blades won again despite a poor performance.

Sam Parry

Leisurely journey into Luton on the 12:10 from South East London. We change at Blackfriars—no issue there. We sup cans—no problem. We arrive in Luton, and walk through the driving rain to the sprawling Death Star of a Wetherspoon. From the smoking area, we spot the kebab house that we visited last season. It has a robotic arm to carve the spinning wheel of meat. Fond memories. Very fond memories. But we forgo the kebab this time, instead checking our phones to work out the next part of the journey and… blow me down. Burnley have drawn with Preston 0-0. Huge opportunity now!

At 14:30, the rain is still tipping down. We don’t much fancy the walk, but we have little choice. That is until we spot a bus.

“Excuse me mate, is the bus going to the ground?” I ask a community support officer.

"“It certainly is—just watch for when I get off.” He replies.

Look, I cannot overemphasise how easy and pleasant our transport options were, in contrast to the faff that Al sometimes puts up with throughout his escapades on a coach. The bus, which is somehow also a tram, gets us to the ground in about 6 minutes. It drops us two minutes away from the away end, and we get inside within moments.

We’ll miss it when it’s gone.

Within a footballing ecosystem where all new-ish stadia look and feel uncannily similar, Luton’s ground is superb. I’ll hear nothing to the contrary. It may be small. It may squished up against terraced houses. But it is wholly itself. I’m not sure if it can be that confident in its own skin given the club is moving to a new stadium, but it should. They don’t make ‘em like this any more.

We find our seats, which is to say a random section of safe standing gaps. The game starts. Confidence flows, especially after the performance against Boro. But as the Blades penalty box begins to see all the action, the thought begins to dawn that Boro were at an ebb so low we easily took advantage. Luton are dominant. Out fighting and out battling. Thelo Aasgard, signed from Wigan in January, looks a neat little player. He hits the crossbar after a bit of neat footwork and the groans from the away end are a loud and honest reflection of a frustrating opening. At ‘43, we nip down the concourse for a pint. At ‘44, we hear some oohs for a Tyrese Campbell shot—it was only our second of the half.

Wilder changes it at half-time and we set up in 3-5-2, matching Luton. It nullifies them immediately, and it’s somewhat surprising, given their first-half dominance, how quickly their performance drops off. We look much better. And on ‘50, Ben Brereton Diaz almost connects with a cross from a tight angle to put us ahead. Not quite.

It’s no thriller. And the half-time pint turn necessitates a mid-half toilet break. Me and my mate Jon nip to the loos, squeezing through the crowd that’s bunched up in the gangways and aisles. When we return from the concourse, Blades are advancing and we pause in the aisles as a cross comes in. Luton defend it well. But it falls to Callum O’Hare—who must’ve come on whilst we were absent—his hooked cross lands at the feet of Anel Ahmedodzic who fires home for 1-0.

Now, this is where the afternoon turns on its head—quite literally. Caught in the celebration and the lunge of the crowd down, I fly off my feet, falling in stages, and catching the back of my head on the corner of the safe-standing rail. Stuck under bodies, I feel a strong arm dragging me to my feet: Jon. Cheers lad. It was all fun and games. Despite being ten-pin bowled down the stairs, the atmosphere ticks up a notch, we re-find the rest of our lot and the celebrations continue to the final whistle.

It’s gotta be said that Wilder got his subs spot on. The performance was poor. Gus was missing. But we found a way to win. It’s the story of our season.

As we leave the ground there is only one thought going through our heads: get us back on the brilliant bus-tram thing. That is until we see Rhian Brewster milling about with the fans—he’s good for that. We get on the bus, and head to the Bricklayers Arms, a pub near the station. We have a couple in there, bumping into Phil, who writes the superb blog below.

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On the short walk to the station, we find ourselves in dire need of food. But with only minutes to spare, there’s no time for a robotic kebab. Instead, we ransack the corner shop for its crisps and cans. Booze and salt: it’s a tale as old as time.

We’re back in Peckham within the hour. The head is sore for this London Blade, but there’s still room for a Guinness in the local. A win. A tough win. A headache. A concussion? Perhaps. But a superb day of transport and beer-drinking.

Alternative Man of the Match? It could be Jon for pulling me from the floor, but he’s equalled, no, surpassed by that vast array of salt, carbs and crunch.

SEE YOU AT (…well I won’t be seeing you at QPR because I’m off on holiday myself, so) ARGYLE WIZ!