At my hockey club (in Manchester), there are two Spurs fans -- me and Dave. When the bar manager got a pair of tickets from the brewery, for the second leg of the Burnley semi-final at Turf Moor, he offered them to us.
So off we went, thinking it'd be an evening of Champagne football. It wasn't. It was a freezing cold northern evening, with rain bordering on the torrential. We were about two rows back from the pitch, in the corner right next to the Spurs fans. We were surrounded by hardcore Burnley fans, intent on spending the entire game abusing the nearby away fans. We kept quiet.
The football was atrocious. We stood there in silence. We went 1-0 down. Dave and I looked at each other, and clapped. We'd been Spurs fans for long enough to be worried, even when 4-2 ahead on aggregate against some lower-league cloggers.
Half time. Weirdly, a couple of boys walked though half the concourse in Spurs tops and scarves...no-one really bothered them. Did we really see that?
2-0. Again, we clapped. Hollowly. By this time, it was so damn cold we couldn't feel our hands.
3-0. Oh my GHod. The place went mental. Hairy-arsed Lancastrians jumping all over us. We clapped and cheered. We had to. I felt dead inside.
Extra time. Still all Burnley. No away goal. I felt like crying.
And then...SUPER PAV! DEFOOOOEEEE! Thankfully, we were both too numb to even move. The crowd started throwing things at the jubilant away fans. We left.
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Was also in the Stretford End when Pedro Mendes "scored" that goal. There were a fair few Yids in that stand that night, including the aforementioned Dave, whose wife is a red. At the end of the game, my mates apologised to me for the injustice, as did a few others around us. There wasn't a person in that stand who thought Carroll had saved it.
Have been to the Reebok and Emirates Marketing Project a fair few times with the away fans. Decided a couple of years ago not to do it any more -- too depressing when we lost, annoying when we win.