I wanted all four of the so-called unglam clubs to win
Last Saturday morning, first thing, I went to St Pancras Station, not to go anywhere, just to be there, and it was full of other people, being there, which is how it used to be, when all these grand stations opened in the 19th century and were seen as architectural wonders.
Yes, the couple kissing is a bit crude and corny, but at least it will date quickly. The woman's skirt, high heels, and the bloke's little rucksack - worn over a suit jacket, that was strange - will soon make it a period piece. It's larger than I expected, yet somehow dwarfed as it's in a silly, confined space, whereas the statue of Betjeman is lost because it's been plonked down in the wide open.
The champagne bar was a surprise. I'd expected it would be an actual bar, stretching for ever. In fact, it's a serving point, plus a long line of banquette-type chairs. But it is swish, classy, with staff in ducky designer grey. At ten in the morning, there was only one party sitting knocking back the champagne - ten West Brom supporters, with their scarves and repro shirts, a bit scruffy, as if they'd been sleeping on a coach all night, but perfectly well behaved, nobody drunk or singing, just sitting, slowly supping from their fluted glasses.
I stopped and smiled. Nothing's too good for the workers. Then I thought hang on, they could be lawyers, hedge-fund managers. I wished I'd had a camera. I'd show the scene to Sir Philip Gibbs, who wrote such a nasty, pompous piece in the Graphic on 29 April 1911, reporting that "a horde of barbarians invaded London last Saturday . . . sheer savages, they went stupidly about". They must have email facilities in heaven for digi-cameras.
Then I went over to the British Library, into the manuscript room; I checked out Magna Carta, Wordsworth, Shakespeare. As ever, the cabinet with the Beatles lyrics had the most people, though the new Harold Pinter stuff was attracting attention.
Yet all the time, in my mind, I was still thinking of those Baggie fans. Would they regret having lashed out on the champagne at ten in the morning, if they found themselves having to come to Wembley again for the final? I rushed home to watch their semi with Pompey live on telly. Motty, as ever, was going on about the romance of the cup, the greatest competition in the world, and I was screaming "Shurrup". If it's so brilliant, why did our top four teams get eliminated so early? Could they not be arsed? Had all the foreign players in fact never heard of the FA Cup?
And yet and yet, there has been a romance about the FA Cup this year, in a bread-and-dripping, unflashy, unstated way, with those four so-called unglamorous clubs getting to the semis. I wanted each of them to win the final - for romantic reasons.
Wouldn't it be fun for Cardiff City to take the Cup out of England, just as they did in 1927? Pompey, great just after the war, had descended to Division Four by 1980, so a storybook return to glory, if they now win it. I was looking forward to singing along with West Brom, if they'd made it. Between 1977 and 1988, their managers, in order, were called Ronnie, Ron, Ronnie, Ron, Johnny, Ron, Ron. Come on, even you can sing that song.
Barnsley have still won nowt since 1912 (when they did win the FA Cup), but I love the fact that their goalie is called Luke Steele, perfect for a romantic hero, and their shirts carry the name of a firm of solicitors. That would have surprised snotty old Philip Gibbs.
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