Loud Arsehole Dad - meet Loud Arsehole Mum!

Games 27-29, 2022-23

Remember last weekend's sportsmanlike spectator of the day, Loud Arsehole Dad (LAD)? This past Saturday's U15 game yielded another example of this hopefully dying species. Throughout an otherwise entirely peaceful first half, LAD screams about call after call. I ignore him, because there's nothing wrong with my calls, and nothing to discuss. At half-time, I even text a fellow ref: "Very quiet except for one really loud dad everyone's ignoring. Twat."

As we're taking the field for the second half, the home team's number 9 cheerfully tells me, "Sorry about my dad on the touchline there. Don't worry about him, he's nuts." I reply that I'd been wondering which player he was attached to, though I don't mention that just a couple of minutes ago I'd referred to him in a text message as a twat. The number 9's a nice lad, though, and scores two goals in the second half. In a happy parallel to last week's game, the next generation seems to be learning from the LADs - here's the model bad parent showing you how not to behave. Good job, dad!

I'd reffed the away team just four days earlier in a testy cup tie. Two of their players ended up with cautions in that game - one for his part in a hormone-driven face-off, and one for a nasty foul. They remember me fine, and as we're going through the player's ID passes, I mention to both players that I'd hate to have to take their names for the second time in a week. Their team-mates laugh, and they all behave perfectly for the entire 70 minutes, despite getting hammered 5-0 in a game to decide who goes top of the division.

The game's a good example of how it helps when teams and referees know each other. On Tuesday, I'd chatted with the same team's coaches before the game, and I do so again today. At one point, as I'm standing right in front of their bench for a free-kick, they tell me that they just subbed in a player. I tell them that they needed to inform me first. Theoretically, I should yellow-card the player they've just sent on. "We couldn't get your attention," they say. "That's because I"m concentrating on the game," I respond, "but you still need to ask." Then we all laugh, and I note down the sub. A yellow card here would have served no purpose whatsoever, other than to make me look like the twat, not the LAD on the other side of the ground.

LAM I Am.

In the following U17 game at the same club, the LAD has been replaced by a LAM (Loud Arsehole Mum). Strangely, she stands in the same place as the LAD stood during the previous game - like there's a designated spot for idiots who yearn to humiliate themselves in public - and raises the same petty objections to minor calls, like throw-ins and clear offsides. She also has a really annoying voice, like an old crow with a chronic throat infection. When the home team's number 4 goes through an opponent right in front of her, she can't believe that I show him a yellow card. "It wasn't intentional!" she raves, and I break into laughter again, without bothering to look in her direction. What fun we're having this afternoon.

The game turns less amusing in the second half when there's a brawl about something or other following a foul by the away team. I stand back and take note of the principal shovers and shouters, and once the heads have lost their heat, I invite three of them to leave the field and take a five-minute break. Off they troop, tripping over their bottom lips, prompting the LAM to take their side. "Why wasn't yellow enough?" she squawks. The voice of insanity pleading for lenience - like I say, every week there's something new.

At the end of the game, there's no sign of the LAM. Like the LADs, they dissolve into the night as soon as there might be a chance to ask them what the hell their problem is. It's probably better that way. Instead, a home team official awaits me, shakes my hand, thanks me for coming (I can't stress often enough how much this simple gesture means to me), and with a smile apologises for the fact that "it wasn't an easy game".

"Believe me," I reply. "I've seen much, much worse."

Game 27: 1-2 (4 x yellow)
Game 28: 5-0 (no cards)
Game 26: 5-0 (3 x yellow, 3 x time-penalties)

My new book 'Reffing Hell: Stuck in the Middle of a Game Gone Wrong' documents six years of whistling torment, tears and occasional ecstasy. Please buy a copy direct from Halcyon if you would like to support this blog and independent publishing.