The Solihull Experience

By kwin
September 5 2005

Down to Earth with a thud. Only 15 months after winning the Parker Pen, the disaster that was relegation couldn't have been more stark, as Quins ran out on Saturday to find themselves at the most ordinary of Rugby Clubs.

I don't mean that as an insult. Solihull & Birmingham rose to the occasion and did us proud, and there's nothing wrong with them at all, but, my, my - how the mighty are fallen.

How best to describe it? Well, those of you who are involved in Rugby at any level below the Premiership will know the sort of thing immediately: Nestling in the suburbs, surrounded by upmarket 1930's detached houses, each new brick-drive featuring a new Lexus, the club could have been anywhere in the home counties. 

An old sign to Birmingham and Solihull FC points down a small alleyway between two houses, just along from the primary school. Once inside cars park on the grass, the clubhouse is about the size of Staines RFC, although less well appointed, and similarly festooned in information on the Minis, the Tours and the 2ndXV results.

The grass was pale green, and the pitch features a slight slope down to the hedge, behind which a tennis court was visible. There is one stand, a temporary structure (apparently 2nd-hand from Worcester) and the changing rooms are a prefab building adjoining the nursery, and any fans standing outside the open window at half time could hear the coach's half time talk without having to pay £950!

Three generations of kwins were present: my father, father-in-law, brother and son made up the party and we had arrived in Solihull rather early, surprised to find out how close Birmingham actually is to London, and we hit the pub we'd googled out the day before at a comfortable 12.15...only to find it didn't cater for children.

Back in the car, we arrived in Shirley and stopped at random, in a large pub on the High Street. In the Public Bar was a Brummie wedding party in high spirits, and in the overheated Lounge was the Saturday Carvery: an astonishingly good-value £3.25 for all the beef, turkey, gammon, potatoes and vegetables you could eat. 

We were made welcome, but I wouldn't exactly say we fitted in: not surprisingly given the price, pensioners from all over South Birmingham flock there, many alone; and pensioners in Solihull mostly wear a jacket and tie to lunch. Certainly none were in rugby shirt, cargo pants or flip flops. Oh well. Still, with wine from £6 a bottle and Tetleys at less than £2, our meal for five came in at an unbeatable £31, so I slipped the waitress a fiver when we left. We are Harlequins.

Parking at the school "Welcome to Solihull, hope yow all had a good journey?" we strolled to the ground where couple of football-shirted urchins, discussing the offside rule, sold us a programme for £2, and I quickly spotted the 'ticket-collection point' (a trestle table) where, by prior arrangement, I exchanged the standing-tickets I'd ordered  by mistake for some seats in the Stand. "Don't yow worry, Mr Kwin, yow'll be orl-right" the helpful staff on the phone had told me, and I was.

Inside the ground the atmosphere was pure village-fete. A ring of tents and marquees contained a bar, the clothes shop 'everything £10!" and there was a burger van. Queues were manageable and we didn't wait more than a few minutes for our pints. In the clubhouse (no Studs, please - I wonder how long it's been since Quins had that on the door) the small bar hummed and fans queued politely for the Gents. Overall the club was charming, and the atmosphere not dissimilar from the Stoop, to tell the truth.

Around the ground Quins fans dominated - some estimates were that there was a 1,000 of us, but that seems like an unlikely large number, but any way you counted them there were loads. I can't imagine we'll take that many again to an Away game this season. We milled about in the sunshine, resplendent in magenta and sky blue, but not many geezer trousers - they were fun at the time, but they feel a bit silly in ND1, don't they? 

A rather lack-lustre bee mascot capered about. A voice on the crackling PA system welcomed visiting fans and, glancing around, I spotted their man-with-the-mike not on the pitch, but sealed into a small box inside the clubhouse. Who says we can't learn from the lower divisions?

Not wearing many replica shirts (will replica shirts also start feel a bit silly in ND1?) the Pertemps Bees fans blended in a little and it was hard to tell how many there were, or what they felt about it all. When Quins ran out, a couple along from me had a half-hearted dig at our 'pretty kit' but when the Bees ran out in theirs, his ground was uncertain and he knew it. Standing behind the goal I met a seven-year old with his Nan, watching closely, I struck up a conversation, but they weren't very interested in Quins or in Mehrtens. 

The stand was comfortable enough, and our seats were fine: between the half-way and the 22m and only partly behind a pillar

The seats in the centre of the stand was occupied mainly by home fans, and from there, during the game, emanated a buzz of conversation, polite applause, quiet for kicks, and occasional shouts of encouragement for good play. This was in some contrast with the boisterous Quins fans who, I'm afraid to say, struck the only false note of the afternoon. Don't get me wrong: I'm a massive fan of noisy and good-humoured support, but in the last season or two something nasty seems to have slipped in unnoticed, especially in the the treatment of the referee where an unwelcome - and entirely undeserved - undercurrent of malice seemed evident in the barracking he received. Supporting rugby is about encouragement, banter and celebration, but at times the humourless barrage of noise and comments on Saturday verged on intimidation, and spite. Not appropriate at Pertemps Bees, and not appropriate at the Stoop either. We are Harlequins.

After the game local kids streamed on to the hard-wearing pitch and kicked a few balls about, the bar and the tents filled up with fans, players and coaches alike, chatting in the sunshine.  We retraced our steps down the alley, and were wished farewell by the Ladies on the desk as we went 'Good Luck for the rest of the season", she said, "thanks for coming, I don't expect we'll see you next year!"

It was a great place to visit, a friendly atmosphere, a fine summers day, and thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, but once is enough: We really need to get back into the Premiership. I believe we will do it, so I don't suppose we will be coming back next year, and to tell the truth: I won't miss it.