|The Hand-Dryer Treatment|
Written by monty_radio on Monday, 22nd Oct 2018 19:44
Giving up on the mirage of a quick half-time tea I turned aside to the Gents before any reluctant return to that other seat for which I’d had to offer up £25. My visit set off a chain (pun intended) of reflection and metaphor.
Years ago I visited Stevenage for a Town pre-season friendly. It was a new ground; It was my first time encounter with the Dyson Air-Blade hand-dryer. What a triumphant hand-drying! – speed, warmth, then out quickly for an equally fast tea. This was a non-league club on the rise.
Saturday in the Cobbold crypt: an Air Whisper or was it an Air Wimp. Fifteen years on from the Stevenage hand-sauna experience - the Portman Puffing Billy. Ancient S2 technology tinkling away hopelessly in a two-cubicle shed. Probably a good job that half my fellow supporters know anyway that real men don’t visit the loo in order to get wet.
As the second half drooped through its dire distance and the attacking cavalry failed to coax the horse out of the stable I fell to wondering if perhaps some of the subs were still in the loo waiting to get hands thoroughly dry after the half-time lemon had left its mark.
Then it struck me that the attacking surge of power that failed to materialise, the new Hurstwhile direction and thrust that was still in the stables, the Portman patient whose life was ebbing away before my weary eyes – it was all of a piece with my feeble-breathing hand-dryer that didn’t. This is the way the Hurst-world ends – not with a whoosh, but a whimper.
Surely driving a harder bargain for Didzy could have brought in a Dyson or two. Where’s the vision, the investment, the modernity? I’m off to get my hands properly dry.
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