November 7th: Leicester City v West Bromwich Albion (Championship)
Not long ago, I wrote this:
"Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all."
This sentence repeats over and over in my head as the bastard behind the wheel of the 88 chugs along Saffron Lane at an average speed I work out to be 5.04 miles per hour (1.68 miles in 20 minutes), finally dropping me 100 yards or so from the Aylestone Road junction at about 2.55pm. So allow me to repeat: Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all.
Despite this twattery, a fast walk gets me inside the stadium and within sight of the pitch almost exactly on kick-off.
The first West Brom goal comes on 37, via a deflected Graeme Dorrans free-kick that trickles into the far corner. This is of course followed up by one of football's more annoying noises: Baggies fans doing that fucking stupid "boing boing" shit. A couple of minutes later, they have the chance to do it again when Gonzalo Jara smacks in an awkward strike from 25 yards. In the intervening period, City have lost Matt Oakley to injury. Almost immediately after the goal, Ryan McGivern replaces Andy King, who has apparently already gone off (not that you'd know).
Half time, two down and two players subbed already. It'll not be a good day it seems.
Deep in injury time, Bruno Berner hits the net from a rebounded free-kick, but it's far too late to change the destination of any points now. Still, three home defeats in 18 months isn't too bad is it?
Morrison's, bus, home, kick some doors and tables, eat, sleep. Done.
Fucking Boing Boing. Twats.
Final score: Leicester 1 West Brom 2
I finally bought a new shirt
October 30th: Queens Park Rangers v Leicester City (Championship)
Another evening game means another half-day at work. Arriving in the city centre by bus at around 1pm, I decide I've got time for a small diversion: a visit to the club shop to do some shopping. I take another bus down to the ground and purchase a home shirt, a t-shirt and, yes, a mug. I depart, get to the bus stop and catch a bus back into town, take another detour into Boots, and finally arrive at the bus station around two to meet Helen (fka the disastrously-named Mistress Sparkle - see Coventry away, October 3rd). Twenty minutes later (and ten minutes late), the 440 to London pulls to a stop in one of the bays and far too many people crowd round in front of it. Clearly all these people will not fit on, and soon we discover that there are in fact to be two coaches for this service - one which will stop at Milton Keynes and Golders Green, and one which will go direct. The mere mention of the words 'Milton Keynes' makes this a no-brainer: the direct coach is the one for us.
We get on and immediately find ourselves narrowly avoiding injury when the fuckwitted coach driver lunges forward toward the back of the coach in front, stopping abruptly about two inches from an embarrassing smash. Everyone on board is launched forward in their seats, but nobody is damaged. The fucking idiot.
During a trip lasting just over two hours, I manage to get about an hour's sleep (catch-up from last night) and get some reading done. We arrive in London just before five and find ourselves at White City station (via Notting Hill Gate) at about six. A ten minute walk later, I've grabbed a mug from the shelves of the club shop. Before I can pay, however, something catches the eye. It's called 1882. QPR aftershave. Seriously. Presumably it makes you smell like Gerry Francis.
We stand around outside the away entrance for what feels like an eternity before the gates finally open at 6.30. With nothing better to do, we go straight in after being subjected to a rather brutal bag search. In the concourse, we see a bar. I don't drink, and Helen only wants coffee, so we ask if there's anything non-alcoholic available. "No", comes the short answer. Marvellous.
We sit in our seats and converse and watch people around us drink coffee and other things we were assured were not available just minutes ago. I watch and listen with interest as familiar faces and voices start to appear around me. Strange how there's always a core of people you can rely on to be at (almost) every game. Even if some do get hoofed out early.
Kick-off time arrives and the game... does not begin. Fucking Sky getting their fucking advert breaks in. Three minutes late, the game finally kicks off. QPR start well and look to be every bit the decent side we've been told about.
[Incidentally, the bloke in front of me stinks. It started before the game: I got a faint smell of stale piss in my nostrils and thought "someone stinks of piss here". I've managed to confirm it's the bloke directly in front of me, wearing a grey shirt.]
City have the ball in the net on 16 and we spend a good ten seconds celebrating before the realisation comes that the flag was up the whole time. A text message from someone watching on Sky confirms the decision is right. Some decent football from both sides follows, but on 33 Adel Taraabt goes unchallenged to a loose ball which he carries into the box and slots calmly past Chris Weale. Fuck.
A couple of minutes later, the same man is coming at City's defence and they really don't want to know. He puts his shot wide, but if this is how the game is going to go then it could be a long night. Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) shoots from 40 yards. For some reason. I find this funny.
Another minute on, Dany N'Guessan hooks in a cross from the left hand side and Matty Fryatt nods it in from five yards. City are level!
The rest of the first half passes without much incident, save for a couple of decent moves, and at half time the best thing to happen is the bloke in front who stinks of piss goes off somewhere. I'm slightly concerned that City have switched formations about sixteen times in the first half. Towards the end of the break, an obviously upset QPR fan is mouthing off and gesturing at someone in the Leicester end. Helen and I look around but we can't figure out who it is. Is it me he's staring at? If not it's someone very nearby. Twat.
Second half begins pretty much as the first ended, but nothing of interest until minute 64, when Radek Cerny in the QPR goal makes an appalling hash of a pass to his right-back, which Fryatt gratefully dribbles back towards goal and puts beyond the now red-faced keeper. The away end goes barmy.
A couple of minutes after City take the lead, the home side make a positive move by bringing on Rowan Vine, a man whose scoring record doesn't really suggest he's the man to turn things around. This move is only bettered by the 86th minute decision to bring Adel Taraabt off for Patrick Agyemang. In spite of the introduction of these two goal machines (between them they've amassed a mighty two goals in 29 appearances this season) City hold on for the win. Two night games in five days, six points in the bag. Fantastic.
The walk back to White City station is trouble-free and easy enough (except that Helen is still suffering from the ankle injury we spoke about before) but now we need to get three - yes, three - trains to move 2.326 miles to our hotel. Firstly the Central Line train to Ealing Broadway (four stops), then the District Line to Ealing Common (one stop) and finally the Piccadilly Line to Park Royal. Arriving at Park Royal, I consult a nearby map to find out which direction we need to walk in for "two minutes", according to one website. This is no help, however, and after asking some locals we're pointed in the opposite direction. So we start walking. Soon we see the Travelodge. It's two minutes' walk away, tops. Wonderful, won't be long now until we're in the warm.
We soon notice that there's a large barrier running down the middle of the main road between us and our beds (or rather, her bed and my not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing). It's too high to climb, so the only option is to keep walking until there's a crossing.
Eighteen minutes later we finally walk through the front doors of the hotel. Hungry, we order pizza from the nearest Dominos that actually delivers. This is an ordeal in itself, as the fucking idiot on the other end of the phone, who really shouldn't be allowed to handle telephones in his personal life let alone doing so as part of a paid position, has trouble with a) the order, b) the postcode, for some reason, c) the idea of delivering to a hotel, and d) the difference between a hotel and a block of flats. What feels like hours later, we get in the lift to carry us up to the fourth floor.
As soon as the door opens, I realise I'm going to be complaining about this place. The first two problems make themselves obvious straight away: the walls are not clean by any reasonable standard, and the blind on the window has been scrawled on by a previous resident and not replaced. Nonetheless, we settle in and before long we've eaten and watched some tv (problem 3: the tv makes odd noises). Time to get to sleep, which highlights problem 4: no bedding provided for the not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing. Unwilling to go back down to reception at almost 1am, I decide I'll just have to be cold for the night.
Next morning at around half past ten, we check out and start to walk up the hill towards the station, having decided that there must be a quicker way back than the detour we took last night. Indeed there is - a grotty-looking and badly-lit walkway underneath the main road. During our trip back to Victoria (via Ealing Common and Earls Court) we encounter an awkward woman blocking our entrance to the train who then talks loudly into her phone about getting her hair done (while I playfully imagine throwing her out of the window at high speed), and another woman with eyelashes longer than my index finger talking loudly and emotionally (and bilingually) into her phone about some shit or other (while I listen to my iPod on as loud a setting as it will go). Some people have no manners when it comes to public transport travel.
After breakfast (which for Helen comes in the form of two cups of coffee - I'm starting to think she has an allergy, or at least a serious aversion, to non-coffee flavours), it's time to catch the return coach back to Leicester. Helen spots, in the next bay, a coach bound for Grimsby. Grimsby is one of the worst places on the face of the earth, and she should know because she used to live there.
[For the record, I still contend that Mansfield is always worse, no matter where your starting point.]
Helen desperately tries to prevent people from ruining their lives by going to Grimsby, but to no avail. We're off now anyway.
Final score: QPR 1 Leicester 2
Ticket: £25
Coach: £15
TfL Travel: £10.30
Hotel: £29
Total: £79.30
Another evening game means another half-day at work. Arriving in the city centre by bus at around 1pm, I decide I've got time for a small diversion: a visit to the club shop to do some shopping. I take another bus down to the ground and purchase a home shirt, a t-shirt and, yes, a mug. I depart, get to the bus stop and catch a bus back into town, take another detour into Boots, and finally arrive at the bus station around two to meet Helen (fka the disastrously-named Mistress Sparkle - see Coventry away, October 3rd). Twenty minutes later (and ten minutes late), the 440 to London pulls to a stop in one of the bays and far too many people crowd round in front of it. Clearly all these people will not fit on, and soon we discover that there are in fact to be two coaches for this service - one which will stop at Milton Keynes and Golders Green, and one which will go direct. The mere mention of the words 'Milton Keynes' makes this a no-brainer: the direct coach is the one for us.
We get on and immediately find ourselves narrowly avoiding injury when the fuckwitted coach driver lunges forward toward the back of the coach in front, stopping abruptly about two inches from an embarrassing smash. Everyone on board is launched forward in their seats, but nobody is damaged. The fucking idiot.
During a trip lasting just over two hours, I manage to get about an hour's sleep (catch-up from last night) and get some reading done. We arrive in London just before five and find ourselves at White City station (via Notting Hill Gate) at about six. A ten minute walk later, I've grabbed a mug from the shelves of the club shop. Before I can pay, however, something catches the eye. It's called 1882. QPR aftershave. Seriously. Presumably it makes you smell like Gerry Francis.
We stand around outside the away entrance for what feels like an eternity before the gates finally open at 6.30. With nothing better to do, we go straight in after being subjected to a rather brutal bag search. In the concourse, we see a bar. I don't drink, and Helen only wants coffee, so we ask if there's anything non-alcoholic available. "No", comes the short answer. Marvellous.
We sit in our seats and converse and watch people around us drink coffee and other things we were assured were not available just minutes ago. I watch and listen with interest as familiar faces and voices start to appear around me. Strange how there's always a core of people you can rely on to be at (almost) every game. Even if some do get hoofed out early.
Kick-off time arrives and the game... does not begin. Fucking Sky getting their fucking advert breaks in. Three minutes late, the game finally kicks off. QPR start well and look to be every bit the decent side we've been told about.
[Incidentally, the bloke in front of me stinks. It started before the game: I got a faint smell of stale piss in my nostrils and thought "someone stinks of piss here". I've managed to confirm it's the bloke directly in front of me, wearing a grey shirt.]
City have the ball in the net on 16 and we spend a good ten seconds celebrating before the realisation comes that the flag was up the whole time. A text message from someone watching on Sky confirms the decision is right. Some decent football from both sides follows, but on 33 Adel Taraabt goes unchallenged to a loose ball which he carries into the box and slots calmly past Chris Weale. Fuck.
A couple of minutes later, the same man is coming at City's defence and they really don't want to know. He puts his shot wide, but if this is how the game is going to go then it could be a long night. Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) shoots from 40 yards. For some reason. I find this funny.
Another minute on, Dany N'Guessan hooks in a cross from the left hand side and Matty Fryatt nods it in from five yards. City are level!
The rest of the first half passes without much incident, save for a couple of decent moves, and at half time the best thing to happen is the bloke in front who stinks of piss goes off somewhere. I'm slightly concerned that City have switched formations about sixteen times in the first half. Towards the end of the break, an obviously upset QPR fan is mouthing off and gesturing at someone in the Leicester end. Helen and I look around but we can't figure out who it is. Is it me he's staring at? If not it's someone very nearby. Twat.
Second half begins pretty much as the first ended, but nothing of interest until minute 64, when Radek Cerny in the QPR goal makes an appalling hash of a pass to his right-back, which Fryatt gratefully dribbles back towards goal and puts beyond the now red-faced keeper. The away end goes barmy.
A couple of minutes after City take the lead, the home side make a positive move by bringing on Rowan Vine, a man whose scoring record doesn't really suggest he's the man to turn things around. This move is only bettered by the 86th minute decision to bring Adel Taraabt off for Patrick Agyemang. In spite of the introduction of these two goal machines (between them they've amassed a mighty two goals in 29 appearances this season) City hold on for the win. Two night games in five days, six points in the bag. Fantastic.
The walk back to White City station is trouble-free and easy enough (except that Helen is still suffering from the ankle injury we spoke about before) but now we need to get three - yes, three - trains to move 2.326 miles to our hotel. Firstly the Central Line train to Ealing Broadway (four stops), then the District Line to Ealing Common (one stop) and finally the Piccadilly Line to Park Royal. Arriving at Park Royal, I consult a nearby map to find out which direction we need to walk in for "two minutes", according to one website. This is no help, however, and after asking some locals we're pointed in the opposite direction. So we start walking. Soon we see the Travelodge. It's two minutes' walk away, tops. Wonderful, won't be long now until we're in the warm.
We soon notice that there's a large barrier running down the middle of the main road between us and our beds (or rather, her bed and my not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing). It's too high to climb, so the only option is to keep walking until there's a crossing.
Eighteen minutes later we finally walk through the front doors of the hotel. Hungry, we order pizza from the nearest Dominos that actually delivers. This is an ordeal in itself, as the fucking idiot on the other end of the phone, who really shouldn't be allowed to handle telephones in his personal life let alone doing so as part of a paid position, has trouble with a) the order, b) the postcode, for some reason, c) the idea of delivering to a hotel, and d) the difference between a hotel and a block of flats. What feels like hours later, we get in the lift to carry us up to the fourth floor.
As soon as the door opens, I realise I'm going to be complaining about this place. The first two problems make themselves obvious straight away: the walls are not clean by any reasonable standard, and the blind on the window has been scrawled on by a previous resident and not replaced. Nonetheless, we settle in and before long we've eaten and watched some tv (problem 3: the tv makes odd noises). Time to get to sleep, which highlights problem 4: no bedding provided for the not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing. Unwilling to go back down to reception at almost 1am, I decide I'll just have to be cold for the night.
Next morning at around half past ten, we check out and start to walk up the hill towards the station, having decided that there must be a quicker way back than the detour we took last night. Indeed there is - a grotty-looking and badly-lit walkway underneath the main road. During our trip back to Victoria (via Ealing Common and Earls Court) we encounter an awkward woman blocking our entrance to the train who then talks loudly into her phone about getting her hair done (while I playfully imagine throwing her out of the window at high speed), and another woman with eyelashes longer than my index finger talking loudly and emotionally (and bilingually) into her phone about some shit or other (while I listen to my iPod on as loud a setting as it will go). Some people have no manners when it comes to public transport travel.
After breakfast (which for Helen comes in the form of two cups of coffee - I'm starting to think she has an allergy, or at least a serious aversion, to non-coffee flavours), it's time to catch the return coach back to Leicester. Helen spots, in the next bay, a coach bound for Grimsby. Grimsby is one of the worst places on the face of the earth, and she should know because she used to live there.
[For the record, I still contend that Mansfield is always worse, no matter where your starting point.]
Helen desperately tries to prevent people from ruining their lives by going to Grimsby, but to no avail. We're off now anyway.
Final score: QPR 1 Leicester 2
Ticket: £25
Coach: £15
TfL Travel: £10.30
Hotel: £29
Total: £79.30
Madejski's circus
October 26th: Reading v Leicester City (Championship)
I leave work at 12.30 and catch the bus to the city centre. This bus goes down Melton Road, and at the junction where that road meets Loughborough Road, on the opposite side, there are some benches. I look to my left as we pass these benches now, and I see a depressing sight. Middle-aged men sitting there drinking cheap cans of tramp fuel. It's a few minutes before 1pm. As the bus reaches the bottom of Charles Street, another depressing sight: everyone standing outside the job centre is wearing at least one item of Adidas clothing.
[Here's a tip for those who find themselves drinking on a bench in Leicester at 12.55 on a Monday afternoon: Stop buying Special Brew and find something constructive to do. Preferably something that won't kick the absolute fuck out of your liver, kill your remaining brain cells, ruin your eyesight or seriously affect your ability to refrain from pissing yourself in public.
I also have tips for those currently seeking a job:
1. Do not wear Adidas tracksuit bottoms to an interview. Also try not to tuck your trousers into your socks, you look a cunt.
2. Put together a cv and apply for jobs instead of hanging around and smoking outside the job centre in large groups before going to the pub for the day.
3. Youporn.com does not exist.]
From the bus, I walk up to WH Smith where I pick up a copy of The Drawing of the Three before making my way to the railway station. Ten minutes after I arrive, a slightly delayed 1333 service to London St Pancras arrives and departs a few minutes behind schedule (mostly because the 1326 didn't leave until 1332).
I manage to get a decent chunk of my new book read before the train reaches St Pancras, where I check the time and make my way to the Underground. The westbound Circle Line train takes me to Paddington for twenty past three, giving me 28 minutes before the service on which I'm booked leaves. Except it doesn't appear on any boards. Panic is avoided when I notice there's hardly anyone queueing for the customer service desk, so I ask a large woman how I identify my train. "Restrictions have been lifted, so you can get the 1545." Marvellous. First stop - Reading.
I find platform 4 and enter the train at carriage C. The near end of carriage C is a little crowded with bemused travellers looking for their reserved seats in carriage B, which it appears South West Trains have neglected to include. With a missing carriage on this train and the apparent cancellation of the 1515 service, the train is a tiny bit overpopulated. I feel somewhat relieved that I'm only on for one stop.
Arriving in Reading at shortly after 4.15, I wander about long enough to visit a cash machine and buy chewing gum before putting my life at risk by crossing the road to get to the bus stop. The number 52 bus has me at the stadium well before 5, so I decide to get my souvenir purchase out of the way before finding some food.
Full, and only £4 worse off, I come out of Pizza Hut at about 6pm. After crossing the car park I find a couple of City fans walking along the main road.
"Where's the pub?"
I shrug in response. Two more arrive from the other direction.
"Where's the pub?"
I look back at the first two. We all shrug. It seems they've been given some substandard directions. Eventually, a couple of Reading fans are kind enough to direct the thirsty gents to a pub.
"How far away is that?" they enquire.
"About a 20-minute walk."
The first two decide that a pint isn't worth a 40-minute round trip, and end up walking with me to the ground. They've travelled from Monmouth to be at today's game, so fair play to them. Shortly after we reach the away end, someone taps me on the shoulder.
"You again." I turn around. It's Radio Leicester's John Sinclair.
"Evening, John. Good trip?"
"Well..." John tells me about the traffic problems encountered on the way down. He makes the suggestion that seeing as I'm always at the ground before them, perhaps he and and his colleague Mr Stringer should travel to away games with me. Yeah, good plan John...
I listen in as John shoves a microphone under the faces of my two temporary friends, and afterwards we wish him a good evening as he wanders off to find something else of interest.
I have several conversations in the run-up to kick-off, before finally settling on a seat at about 7.30. Well before the start of the game, abuse is being hurled at Chris Coleman, who is here for Sky TV.
The game starts interestingly enough, and before long Reading have created their first chance. Not long after, their second. Then another. And another. How the first 40 minutes passes without a Reading goal, I'll never understand. Just before half time, City get a corner at the far end. Matt Oakley floats it towards the head of Martyn Waghorn, who diverts it into the far corner. At the break, City lead.
In the second half, the home side seem to have lost something but still create. The hour mark arrives, still no Reading goal. Innumerable scoring opportunities have been created and squandered. On 65, Royals boss Brendan Rogers makes a decision: lively striker Simon Church (the man who looks most like scoring, to be honest) and crap midfielder Gylfi Sigurdsson are coming off for Shane Long and Jimmy Kebe. This just happens to come during a City fans' chant of "You're getting sacked in the morning", giving some of the home fans the opportunity to join in. This attitude is obviously not popular with some - furious arguments are visible from here.
Further Reading chances come and go - nothing. The tension among home fans grows more obvious by the minute. More chances wasted. Frustration. As away fans, we're enjoying it. Literally nobody around me can believe what we're seeing. The second half has been nothing short of comedy football. And after the previous 75 minutes, nobody can imagine the opposition scoring. Chance after chance after chance, simply frittered away as if they were in infinite supply. And then it ends - the final whistle blows. Three more points for the Foxes, another miserable defeat for Reading.
[Interestingly, Brendan Rogers is related to the late former host of the mind-fucking gibberish-based quiz show 3-2-1, Ted Rogers. Other relatives include ex-Leicester and Trees non-footballer Alan Rogers, American kids' tv favourite Mr Rogers, country singer Kenny Rogers and fictional 20s comic strip character Buck Rogers. Guess which ones I made up.]
Eventually, I find the bus to take me back to the station, and we're there about 20 minutes before the train is set to depart at 2346. I wait on the platform. No other Leicester shirts, I might be in luck here. A few blue and white hoops, but understandably they're a little sullen. Two minutes before departure time, just when I think I'm going to have a nice quiet trip home, half a dozen obviously pissed up City fans arrive. Shit.
The brief ride back to London is actually not that bad. My annoyance threshold barely tested, I am joined by the group on my tube trip back to St Pancras, where the last train back to Leicester leaves at 12.15.
Within a few minutes of us leaving St Pancras, I make my excuses and move carriages (no chance I'll be able to sleep with the noisy fucker sitting opposite me). Then I get the feeling that we've stopped. I must be imagining things, because we would've been told wouldn't we?
Ten minutes later, the announcement comes: we're waiting for some maintenance to be done on the train, it doesn't appear to be running properly. After a few more minutes of being stationary, I decide sleep is a good idea. It turns out I'm right, because the next thing I see, through blurry eyes, is Leicester station. It's 3.15am, which means the train was delayed for a little over an hour. The best thing to do now is to get straight into a taxi - an hour's walk home isn't an option, considering I have to be up at 6.30 for work.
Leicester just won on telly. Imagine that.
Final score: Reading 0 Leicester 1
Time: 15 hours 10 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Train: £25
Total: £47.50
[By the way, anybody wishing to post a comment is more than welcome, as long as you're not advertising fucking bingo websites. Fuck off Mukesh, we're not interested.]
I leave work at 12.30 and catch the bus to the city centre. This bus goes down Melton Road, and at the junction where that road meets Loughborough Road, on the opposite side, there are some benches. I look to my left as we pass these benches now, and I see a depressing sight. Middle-aged men sitting there drinking cheap cans of tramp fuel. It's a few minutes before 1pm. As the bus reaches the bottom of Charles Street, another depressing sight: everyone standing outside the job centre is wearing at least one item of Adidas clothing.
[Here's a tip for those who find themselves drinking on a bench in Leicester at 12.55 on a Monday afternoon: Stop buying Special Brew and find something constructive to do. Preferably something that won't kick the absolute fuck out of your liver, kill your remaining brain cells, ruin your eyesight or seriously affect your ability to refrain from pissing yourself in public.
I also have tips for those currently seeking a job:
1. Do not wear Adidas tracksuit bottoms to an interview. Also try not to tuck your trousers into your socks, you look a cunt.
2. Put together a cv and apply for jobs instead of hanging around and smoking outside the job centre in large groups before going to the pub for the day.
3. Youporn.com does not exist.]
From the bus, I walk up to WH Smith where I pick up a copy of The Drawing of the Three before making my way to the railway station. Ten minutes after I arrive, a slightly delayed 1333 service to London St Pancras arrives and departs a few minutes behind schedule (mostly because the 1326 didn't leave until 1332).
I manage to get a decent chunk of my new book read before the train reaches St Pancras, where I check the time and make my way to the Underground. The westbound Circle Line train takes me to Paddington for twenty past three, giving me 28 minutes before the service on which I'm booked leaves. Except it doesn't appear on any boards. Panic is avoided when I notice there's hardly anyone queueing for the customer service desk, so I ask a large woman how I identify my train. "Restrictions have been lifted, so you can get the 1545." Marvellous. First stop - Reading.
I find platform 4 and enter the train at carriage C. The near end of carriage C is a little crowded with bemused travellers looking for their reserved seats in carriage B, which it appears South West Trains have neglected to include. With a missing carriage on this train and the apparent cancellation of the 1515 service, the train is a tiny bit overpopulated. I feel somewhat relieved that I'm only on for one stop.
Arriving in Reading at shortly after 4.15, I wander about long enough to visit a cash machine and buy chewing gum before putting my life at risk by crossing the road to get to the bus stop. The number 52 bus has me at the stadium well before 5, so I decide to get my souvenir purchase out of the way before finding some food.
Full, and only £4 worse off, I come out of Pizza Hut at about 6pm. After crossing the car park I find a couple of City fans walking along the main road.
"Where's the pub?"
I shrug in response. Two more arrive from the other direction.
"Where's the pub?"
I look back at the first two. We all shrug. It seems they've been given some substandard directions. Eventually, a couple of Reading fans are kind enough to direct the thirsty gents to a pub.
"How far away is that?" they enquire.
"About a 20-minute walk."
The first two decide that a pint isn't worth a 40-minute round trip, and end up walking with me to the ground. They've travelled from Monmouth to be at today's game, so fair play to them. Shortly after we reach the away end, someone taps me on the shoulder.
"You again." I turn around. It's Radio Leicester's John Sinclair.
"Evening, John. Good trip?"
"Well..." John tells me about the traffic problems encountered on the way down. He makes the suggestion that seeing as I'm always at the ground before them, perhaps he and and his colleague Mr Stringer should travel to away games with me. Yeah, good plan John...
I listen in as John shoves a microphone under the faces of my two temporary friends, and afterwards we wish him a good evening as he wanders off to find something else of interest.
I have several conversations in the run-up to kick-off, before finally settling on a seat at about 7.30. Well before the start of the game, abuse is being hurled at Chris Coleman, who is here for Sky TV.
The game starts interestingly enough, and before long Reading have created their first chance. Not long after, their second. Then another. And another. How the first 40 minutes passes without a Reading goal, I'll never understand. Just before half time, City get a corner at the far end. Matt Oakley floats it towards the head of Martyn Waghorn, who diverts it into the far corner. At the break, City lead.
In the second half, the home side seem to have lost something but still create. The hour mark arrives, still no Reading goal. Innumerable scoring opportunities have been created and squandered. On 65, Royals boss Brendan Rogers makes a decision: lively striker Simon Church (the man who looks most like scoring, to be honest) and crap midfielder Gylfi Sigurdsson are coming off for Shane Long and Jimmy Kebe. This just happens to come during a City fans' chant of "You're getting sacked in the morning", giving some of the home fans the opportunity to join in. This attitude is obviously not popular with some - furious arguments are visible from here.
Further Reading chances come and go - nothing. The tension among home fans grows more obvious by the minute. More chances wasted. Frustration. As away fans, we're enjoying it. Literally nobody around me can believe what we're seeing. The second half has been nothing short of comedy football. And after the previous 75 minutes, nobody can imagine the opposition scoring. Chance after chance after chance, simply frittered away as if they were in infinite supply. And then it ends - the final whistle blows. Three more points for the Foxes, another miserable defeat for Reading.
[Interestingly, Brendan Rogers is related to the late former host of the mind-fucking gibberish-based quiz show 3-2-1, Ted Rogers. Other relatives include ex-Leicester and Trees non-footballer Alan Rogers, American kids' tv favourite Mr Rogers, country singer Kenny Rogers and fictional 20s comic strip character Buck Rogers. Guess which ones I made up.]
Eventually, I find the bus to take me back to the station, and we're there about 20 minutes before the train is set to depart at 2346. I wait on the platform. No other Leicester shirts, I might be in luck here. A few blue and white hoops, but understandably they're a little sullen. Two minutes before departure time, just when I think I'm going to have a nice quiet trip home, half a dozen obviously pissed up City fans arrive. Shit.
The brief ride back to London is actually not that bad. My annoyance threshold barely tested, I am joined by the group on my tube trip back to St Pancras, where the last train back to Leicester leaves at 12.15.
Within a few minutes of us leaving St Pancras, I make my excuses and move carriages (no chance I'll be able to sleep with the noisy fucker sitting opposite me). Then I get the feeling that we've stopped. I must be imagining things, because we would've been told wouldn't we?
Ten minutes later, the announcement comes: we're waiting for some maintenance to be done on the train, it doesn't appear to be running properly. After a few more minutes of being stationary, I decide sleep is a good idea. It turns out I'm right, because the next thing I see, through blurry eyes, is Leicester station. It's 3.15am, which means the train was delayed for a little over an hour. The best thing to do now is to get straight into a taxi - an hour's walk home isn't an option, considering I have to be up at 6.30 for work.
Leicester just won on telly. Imagine that.
Final score: Reading 0 Leicester 1
Time: 15 hours 10 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Train: £25
Total: £47.50
[By the way, anybody wishing to post a comment is more than welcome, as long as you're not advertising fucking bingo websites. Fuck off Mukesh, we're not interested.]
Are you sure he's Scottish?
October 20th: Leicester City v Crystal Palace (Championship)
Let's not talk about the first half. The most entertaining thing is Paul, two seats to my left, being in possibly the most cantankerous mood I've ever known. This causes some frankly odd abuse to be aimed at the pitch.
The second half begins with a substitution: lively but ineffective Lloyd Dyer is off, Paul Gallagher is on. Helen, sitting to my left, is visibly excited by this. She almost forgets about the pain in her leg.
[Helen has injured the ankle and knee of her right leg; these injuries are apparently independent of one another.]
The game looks different with Gally. Fifteen minutes into the second half, he runs into the area and is fouled. After a few moments, the referee makes a decision and points to the spot. After Gally picks himself up, Matty Fryatt steps up to take the penalty and hits it straight at Julian Speroni. Gally, who was practically in the six-yard box before the ball was kicked (a fact seemingly missed by Mr East), fires the rebound past the helpless keeper. City lead. Helen jumps up and down, further injuring her own leg despite my attempts (at her own request) to keep her still.
Nine minutes from the end, Gally sees a horrible touch by Danny Butterfield fall into his path and has no hesitation in using his first touch to lob the keeper from about 35 yards. Helen jumps up and down again. She's going to be hobbling home later.
News that Ipswich have had a possible first victory of the season snatched away from them at the very death of their game at home to Watford is greeted in the Kop by cheers. Liverpool's home defeat to Lyon is also apparently a popular piece of news. Coventry's loss at Cardiff is no surprise but is also cheered.
I decide to get the bus home, and almost immediately wish I hadn't. I hand over two quid for a £1.80 fare, but the driver protests that he has no change. No problem, I'll have it back when I get off.
[Now, you're going to think I'm being petty here, but I'm not. Bus travel costs far too much as it is without me paying extra just because they are evidently clueless when it comes to carrying change. Why should I be forced to fork out an additional 11% due to their poor planning? Fuck Arriva, I want my 20p back.]
More people get on until eventually the driver starts waving people away - the bus is too full. Bear in mind that I've just watched him, from a distance of two feet, accept several 20p pieces into his hand. A few stops later on, two people get off. A man tries to get on, only to be told that the bus is full. I look with some disbelief at the bloke standing opposite me. "But there's two people just got off" protests the man at the door.
"The bus is full" repeats the driver.
"But two people have just got off."
"It's full, I can't take any more on."
"But two people have just got off!"
"I can't take any more on."
And the man gives up, stepping back into the cold rain with a look on his face that suggested a mixture of anger and amazement.
The bus empties, and eventually reaches my stop. The doors open, and I step towards the driver. I wait. He just looks at me, as if not knowing what I'm waiting for. "Can I have my change now?"
"I've got no twenty pees."
"Yes you have."
"No, I haven't."
"I just watched you take several."
"Smallest thing I've got is 50p."
"I'll give you this 30p then."
Transaction complete. Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all.
Final score: Leicester 2 Crystal Palace 0
Let's not talk about the first half. The most entertaining thing is Paul, two seats to my left, being in possibly the most cantankerous mood I've ever known. This causes some frankly odd abuse to be aimed at the pitch.
The second half begins with a substitution: lively but ineffective Lloyd Dyer is off, Paul Gallagher is on. Helen, sitting to my left, is visibly excited by this. She almost forgets about the pain in her leg.
[Helen has injured the ankle and knee of her right leg; these injuries are apparently independent of one another.]
The game looks different with Gally. Fifteen minutes into the second half, he runs into the area and is fouled. After a few moments, the referee makes a decision and points to the spot. After Gally picks himself up, Matty Fryatt steps up to take the penalty and hits it straight at Julian Speroni. Gally, who was practically in the six-yard box before the ball was kicked (a fact seemingly missed by Mr East), fires the rebound past the helpless keeper. City lead. Helen jumps up and down, further injuring her own leg despite my attempts (at her own request) to keep her still.
Nine minutes from the end, Gally sees a horrible touch by Danny Butterfield fall into his path and has no hesitation in using his first touch to lob the keeper from about 35 yards. Helen jumps up and down again. She's going to be hobbling home later.
News that Ipswich have had a possible first victory of the season snatched away from them at the very death of their game at home to Watford is greeted in the Kop by cheers. Liverpool's home defeat to Lyon is also apparently a popular piece of news. Coventry's loss at Cardiff is no surprise but is also cheered.
I decide to get the bus home, and almost immediately wish I hadn't. I hand over two quid for a £1.80 fare, but the driver protests that he has no change. No problem, I'll have it back when I get off.
[Now, you're going to think I'm being petty here, but I'm not. Bus travel costs far too much as it is without me paying extra just because they are evidently clueless when it comes to carrying change. Why should I be forced to fork out an additional 11% due to their poor planning? Fuck Arriva, I want my 20p back.]
More people get on until eventually the driver starts waving people away - the bus is too full. Bear in mind that I've just watched him, from a distance of two feet, accept several 20p pieces into his hand. A few stops later on, two people get off. A man tries to get on, only to be told that the bus is full. I look with some disbelief at the bloke standing opposite me. "But there's two people just got off" protests the man at the door.
"The bus is full" repeats the driver.
"But two people have just got off."
"It's full, I can't take any more on."
"But two people have just got off!"
"I can't take any more on."
And the man gives up, stepping back into the cold rain with a look on his face that suggested a mixture of anger and amazement.
The bus empties, and eventually reaches my stop. The doors open, and I step towards the driver. I wait. He just looks at me, as if not knowing what I'm waiting for. "Can I have my change now?"
"I've got no twenty pees."
"Yes you have."
"No, I haven't."
"I just watched you take several."
"Smallest thing I've got is 50p."
"I'll give you this 30p then."
Transaction complete. Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all.
Final score: Leicester 2 Crystal Palace 0
Nothing to talk about
October 17th: Leicester City v Derby County (Championship)
The only thing worth mentioning from before the game is the unnecessary police escort that a large group of Derby fans have been given from the station. Near the ground, a police officer uses equally needless heavy-handedness to shove a group of four innocent people out of the herd's way. He offers the excuse that he's trying to avoid "winding this lot up", neatly ignoring the facts that a) the group he shoved are Derby fans, and b) the rounding up of football fans at railway stations and walking them to the ground surrounded by horses, police vans and jobsworth cunts as if they're convicted murderers being transferred from one high-security prison to another is more likely to wind them up than a small group of people walking nearby, particularly if the small group of people is wearing their colours.
The only thing worth mentioning from the game itself is the waking coma I slip into at some point during the astoundingly tedious second half. That and the fact that neither set of fans seems to give two shits about the game. Oh, and that it's manifestly not the 'sell-out' the club have been telling us about all week. The game finishes 0-0.
The only thing worth mentioning from after the game is a drink in that ropey, not-really-that-studenty student pub near the canal. Then I go home. And that's it.
Final score: Leicester 0 Derby 0
The only thing worth mentioning from before the game is the unnecessary police escort that a large group of Derby fans have been given from the station. Near the ground, a police officer uses equally needless heavy-handedness to shove a group of four innocent people out of the herd's way. He offers the excuse that he's trying to avoid "winding this lot up", neatly ignoring the facts that a) the group he shoved are Derby fans, and b) the rounding up of football fans at railway stations and walking them to the ground surrounded by horses, police vans and jobsworth cunts as if they're convicted murderers being transferred from one high-security prison to another is more likely to wind them up than a small group of people walking nearby, particularly if the small group of people is wearing their colours.
The only thing worth mentioning from the game itself is the waking coma I slip into at some point during the astoundingly tedious second half. That and the fact that neither set of fans seems to give two shits about the game. Oh, and that it's manifestly not the 'sell-out' the club have been telling us about all week. The game finishes 0-0.
The only thing worth mentioning from after the game is a drink in that ropey, not-really-that-studenty student pub near the canal. Then I go home. And that's it.
Final score: Leicester 0 Derby 0
Return of the Headless One
October 3rd: Coventry City v Leicester City (Championship)
[BREAKING NEWS: Blue Maniac lands sidekick
I have recruited an occasional sidekick (sort of a part-timer) and, thanks to assistance from Any Question Answered, her name is now Mistress Sparkle.]
Sparkle beats me to the bus station - she's apparently been here since 8.15 or something. I arrive at 8.30, as agreed, and we chat as we wait. On schedule, the coach to Birmingham arrives, and we make our way to the only available adjacent seats (at the very back), next to a bloke who smells a bit. During the longest hour of recent weeks, Sparkle entertains herself by sending just shy of a thousand text messages. I entertain myself by watching a variety of idiots on the coach, including a woman who keeps fiddling with the air conditioning buttons above her head, apparently not knowing what any of them are doing.
At Digbeth, there's a short interval wherein we see a trio of Tottenham fans on their way to Bolton and I investigate the wares on offer in the shop (zero of interest). The coach is now late, so we go up to the information desk and ask when it'll be here. "In the next few minutes, boarding from Zone A," we're cheerfully assured.
Some fifteen minutes later, in Zone D (at the opposite end of the station to Zone A) we're told the coach to London (via Coventry) is boarding. I privately curse the witch who sent us to the wrong end of the station, and lead Sparkle to the appropriate gate, where we discover the driver is nowhere to be seen. We stand and wait for a few minutes, then some bloke wanders up to the front of the coach and invites us to board. It transpires he's the driver, although you'd never know it from his attire. No matter, Sparkle and I are on board.
We arrive in Coventry some minutes after 11am and very soon receive a call from Ben, who has just got off the train at the other end of the city centre. After a much-needed late breakfast (for which Ben pays) we return to the railway station to get a taxi to the stadium. Just as we do, two young strangers ask if they can get in with us. No problem there, even if they are Coventry fans. As it turns out, they're friendly enough, but just a tad on the racist side. At the ground, we split the fare unevenly (there are only two of them compared to three of us, but they pay £6 of the £11 fare. Ben, on the other hand, pays fuck all. Still, given that Sparkle gives me two quid, I figure I've only paid three so I reckon it's alright). As a trio we enter the club shop / ticket office. Sparkle and I go and find a mug for my collection, while Ben collects the ticket I ordered for him yesterday.
An extremely long walk later, Sparkle and I find our seats just as the game commences. Early on, it looks like it could be a good scrap - these local derbies often are. At some point, it's confirmed that DJ Campbell is, somehow, on the bench. Something must have changed there.
A good first half takes a sour turn towards the end as a Paul Gallagher handball results in a free kick for the home side. Sammy Clingan, whose name definitely does not sound like 'cling-on', hits a top-notch free-kick past Chris Weale. Bollocks. Sparkle instantly jumps to the defence of Gally, despite nobody saying anything negative about him. This is because Sparkle is in love with Gally's car.
At half time, we're joined by Ben, who fills an empty seat next to me. The second half starts somewhat dully for City, but on the hour Mr Pearson decides it's time for a change. Or three. Steve Howard and Martyn Waghorn (variously called 'Wags', 'Waggeh' and 'Foghorn' by different sections of the City support) enter the field of play, as does Campbell for the first time in a competitive match this season. This bold switch brings about a change in the tone of the game as all three men affect the game in their own way (in Campbell's case, this involves firing an apparently simple cross into the side netting). Ten minutes after the changes, Waghorn sends a screaming half-volley past Kieran Westwood to level things up.
After the final whistle, we eventually make our way to the buses to take us back into the centre. I hand over a little over a tenner for the three of us, and we seat ourselves at the back. Sparkle repays most of her fare. Ben pays fuck all nowt. Again.
Back in the centre, Ben is soon off to catch his train back to the city of comedy accents, where he lives. Sparkle and I decide it's time to pick up some drinks, and this time she pays fuck all nowt.
[It's becoming a common theme, this. Fortunately these are people I can trust well enough not to take the piss. If someone else tried it - you, for example - I'd tell them to get fucked.]
As we wait for the coach, Sparkle sends another six dozen text messages while I watch local idiots. Bus stations are always full of the type of person you hope to avoid on buses. The coach back to Leicester arrives not a moment too soon, and about half an hour later Sparkle and I part company at St Margaret's.
I like having a sidekick.
Final score: Coventry 1 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 45 minutes
Ticket: £25
Coach: £16.90
Total: £41.90
[BREAKING NEWS: Blue Maniac lands sidekick
I have recruited an occasional sidekick (sort of a part-timer) and, thanks to assistance from Any Question Answered, her name is now Mistress Sparkle.]
Sparkle beats me to the bus station - she's apparently been here since 8.15 or something. I arrive at 8.30, as agreed, and we chat as we wait. On schedule, the coach to Birmingham arrives, and we make our way to the only available adjacent seats (at the very back), next to a bloke who smells a bit. During the longest hour of recent weeks, Sparkle entertains herself by sending just shy of a thousand text messages. I entertain myself by watching a variety of idiots on the coach, including a woman who keeps fiddling with the air conditioning buttons above her head, apparently not knowing what any of them are doing.
At Digbeth, there's a short interval wherein we see a trio of Tottenham fans on their way to Bolton and I investigate the wares on offer in the shop (zero of interest). The coach is now late, so we go up to the information desk and ask when it'll be here. "In the next few minutes, boarding from Zone A," we're cheerfully assured.
Some fifteen minutes later, in Zone D (at the opposite end of the station to Zone A) we're told the coach to London (via Coventry) is boarding. I privately curse the witch who sent us to the wrong end of the station, and lead Sparkle to the appropriate gate, where we discover the driver is nowhere to be seen. We stand and wait for a few minutes, then some bloke wanders up to the front of the coach and invites us to board. It transpires he's the driver, although you'd never know it from his attire. No matter, Sparkle and I are on board.
We arrive in Coventry some minutes after 11am and very soon receive a call from Ben, who has just got off the train at the other end of the city centre. After a much-needed late breakfast (for which Ben pays) we return to the railway station to get a taxi to the stadium. Just as we do, two young strangers ask if they can get in with us. No problem there, even if they are Coventry fans. As it turns out, they're friendly enough, but just a tad on the racist side. At the ground, we split the fare unevenly (there are only two of them compared to three of us, but they pay £6 of the £11 fare. Ben, on the other hand, pays fuck all. Still, given that Sparkle gives me two quid, I figure I've only paid three so I reckon it's alright). As a trio we enter the club shop / ticket office. Sparkle and I go and find a mug for my collection, while Ben collects the ticket I ordered for him yesterday.
An extremely long walk later, Sparkle and I find our seats just as the game commences. Early on, it looks like it could be a good scrap - these local derbies often are. At some point, it's confirmed that DJ Campbell is, somehow, on the bench. Something must have changed there.
A good first half takes a sour turn towards the end as a Paul Gallagher handball results in a free kick for the home side. Sammy Clingan, whose name definitely does not sound like 'cling-on', hits a top-notch free-kick past Chris Weale. Bollocks. Sparkle instantly jumps to the defence of Gally, despite nobody saying anything negative about him. This is because Sparkle is in love with Gally's car.
At half time, we're joined by Ben, who fills an empty seat next to me. The second half starts somewhat dully for City, but on the hour Mr Pearson decides it's time for a change. Or three. Steve Howard and Martyn Waghorn (variously called 'Wags', 'Waggeh' and 'Foghorn' by different sections of the City support) enter the field of play, as does Campbell for the first time in a competitive match this season. This bold switch brings about a change in the tone of the game as all three men affect the game in their own way (in Campbell's case, this involves firing an apparently simple cross into the side netting). Ten minutes after the changes, Waghorn sends a screaming half-volley past Kieran Westwood to level things up.
After the final whistle, we eventually make our way to the buses to take us back into the centre. I hand over a little over a tenner for the three of us, and we seat ourselves at the back. Sparkle repays most of her fare. Ben pays fuck all nowt. Again.
Back in the centre, Ben is soon off to catch his train back to the city of comedy accents, where he lives. Sparkle and I decide it's time to pick up some drinks, and this time she pays fuck all nowt.
[It's becoming a common theme, this. Fortunately these are people I can trust well enough not to take the piss. If someone else tried it - you, for example - I'd tell them to get fucked.]
As we wait for the coach, Sparkle sends another six dozen text messages while I watch local idiots. Bus stations are always full of the type of person you hope to avoid on buses. The coach back to Leicester arrives not a moment too soon, and about half an hour later Sparkle and I part company at St Margaret's.
I like having a sidekick.
Final score: Coventry 1 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 45 minutes
Ticket: £25
Coach: £16.90
Total: £41.90
To me, to you
September 29th: Middlesbrough v Leicester City (Championship)
At midnight, I give up - there's no way I'll last until the coach arrives at 4.55am without sleeping. So I set my alarm for 2.30...
I wake up at 3.22, with my alarm clock several yards away from where it started, which means a rushed preparation for the day. I manage to leave the house at 3.53, meaning I have 62 minutes before the coach leaves. Regular followers will know that achieving this time would beat my current personal best of 63 minutes, and is well inside my most recent time of 69 minutes. Better get a stride on then.
I manage to arrive at 4.52 (59 minutes - a new personal best, and my legs hurt), and I just make the back of the queue as the last few passengers are being loaded. I sit about six seats from the front, right in front of some noisy little bastard whining at his parents. Everyone's soon asleep, though (didn't even need the chloroform I have in my bag) and I remain in that state until London. I enjoy breakfast at around 7.45, slightly more so because there's a woman at the next table frightened of letting her bags, which are a yard away, out of her sight for even a fraction of a second. She's been to London before, clearly.
Later, across the road, I watch with perverse amusement as a couple, easily in their early 60s, wrestle mentally and physically with the logistics of carrying about ten heavy bags between them. After a good two minutes of swapping and struggling (and falling backwards into the path of a bemused passing motorist) they finally decide on a configuration that works and make for the door of the station. Unfortuitously, the male half of the double act has become so cumbersome and ungainly with the sheer quantity of rucksacks and holdalls wrapped around his anatomy that he cannot fit through the double doors leading inside. Such is the delicacy of the balance, it's now down to his equally clueless sidekick to rearrange the bags yet again in order to ensure both that he can fit through and that he doesn't topple over. Moments later, the two are struggling towards their departure gate. Meanwhile, I'm amazed to realise that I've managed to keep a more-or-less straight face throughout their (presumably frustrating) ordeal.
With another hour to kill before my coach departs, I decide to wander in a direction chosen entirely at random, and end up walking in a 40-minute circle. Well that was fun. Back in the coach station, I walk through the departures building and towards the waiting area. I find myself quickly repelled by a strong smell, and retreat to find a seat near the appropriate gate. It seems someone has used part of the coach station as not only a bedroom but also as a toilet. It's not long before the 'Wet Floor' signs are out and the culprit is 'removed'.
I sit on the uncomfortable metal bench and wait. In the following minutes, as a young woman in an indescribably short and, considering the weather, inappropriate dress sits opposite and a man talks loudly into his mobile phone nearby, I make very brief conversation with a very nervous woman sitting to my left. And then the doors open.
As the coach pulls away from Victoria, I hear (through my half-sleep) that there will be a driver change at Leicester Forest East. Now that's annoyed me. Not for long though, because I fall asleep again and the next thing I know we're at Woodall services. Here, passengers are instructed very clearly not to bring hot food back on board, and to be back at 1.45 because the coach will be leaving then. So at 1.47, the last two passengers finally stroll back and climb aboard.
[I really hate it when people cannot follow a basic instruction. I hate it more when people, like this driver, accommodate such people by not fucking off at the right time and leaving the twats stranded.]
Around York, a woman whose age I'll estimate at 141 gets up from her seat, shuffles a little towards the back of the coach, then turns round and sits back down again. Presumably she decided against a toilet visit shortly after her initial opposite decision. Whether this is because she forgot where she was going, or she pissed herself and thought a toilet trip was now unnecessary, I couldn't guess.
Eventually, the coach pulls to a stop in familiar surroundings, and I see it again. Back in February, I described the following as the most soul-destroying words in the English language:
WELCOME TO MIDDLESBROUGH
Nothing in the intervening period has changed my mind.
A walk through the centre of Middlesbrough soon brings me to the off-site MFC club shop. Just the place to buy a mug. As I browse, I get talking to Keith. He's the security bloke here, and is a unbelievably nice man. Both Lauren and Alex are also very pleasant, although Lauren appears to know very little about what's going on around her.
Not far from the ground, I'm spotted by someone in a passing car - now I'm driving around with Paul, Janice and Helen. Owing to the fact that he's been here several times before, Paul knows exactly where to park. After an unusually convoluted trip around what appears to be an abandoned industrial estate, we're finally stationary. And almost alone.
We walk down to the ground before 7pm, and outside the ticket office we meet Cherie, my tour guide from my previous trip to the northeast. Eventually we make our way inside and to the seats. Shortly before kick-off, the seats around us fill up and I end up going to the seat named on my ticket, which is in the very back row.
The stewards spend the first twenty minutes of the match trying to get people to sit down, but give up after that when they realise nobody's going to listen. There's some decent noise being created, I'm happy with that. What I'm not happy with is the person who keeps making that awful stink. It's the sort of smell you'd expect from someone who's been eating lamb madras for every meal all week. Fortunately, the first half ends just at the point when my eyes are watering, and as there's an empty seat by Cherie I relocate back to where I started.
The second half represents an entertaining battle but it's the 83rd minute before any breakthrough is made. Matt Oakley centres for Lloyd Dyer to place a deflected shot into the back of Brad Jones' goal. During the following celebrations, I somehow get tangled up with the bloke next to me and almost rip the hood off his coat. The next ten minute period produces some nervy moments but City hold on for the first away win of the season.
On the way out, I say my goodbyes to P, J & H (it's quicker this way) and walk into town with Cherie for a quick drink in a nearby pub. As before, she gives me a lift back to the bus station and we part company again. Inside is Alan, trying to figure out which stand the coach departs from. One board appears to say stands 28-31, which are upstairs, while the one next to it suggests stand 33, which is across the road on the opposite side of the station. I'm pretty sure the 00.15 coach from Middlesbrough to London has always left from upstairs, and upon investigating we discover a couple of other people hoping that's still the case. We talk for the next hour until the 426 overnight service arrives, and I take a seat at the back - and fall asleep.
I cannot see Doncaster, because I'm asleep. That is, until the noisy cow sitting next to me starts talking loudly to her equally noisy family members. In my dazed state, I neglect to shout "it's half past two in the fucking morning! I've got work at 1 o'clock! Shut the fuck up!" in her face. Luckily for her, there's no further disturbance until London, where I have to get off anyway. Noisy bitch.
Another early morning breakfast (6.35) followed by a trip to the newsagent to pick up some reading material, and a trip to the little HMV in Victoria railway station (where I grab a three dvd pack of kids' films for £7 - that, along with the Simpsons game on Xbox 360 will keep Maniac Jr quiet for a few hours), before wandering back up to the coach station to witness a man reading - out loud and to himself - the sides of all the visible coaches.
Time to make a move towards the right gate. I sit down for a bit, and the girl opposite apparently notices that I'm observing our surroundings in much the same way she is - with amusement. Suddenly, she parks herself next to me, introduces herself as Jess and starts chattering away. She's inoffensive enough, and very small, so I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. Good decision as it turns out, because she's a nice kid.
Within 20 minutes of boarding the coach, I'm asleep yet again and only woken by the driver's announcement that we've arrived in Leicester. A weary stumble up the road and a bus trip later, I'm home at 11.32am. An hour and a half before I need to be at work...
Final score: Middlesbrough 0 Leicester 1
Time: 31 hours 39 minutes
Ticket: £26
Coach: £24
Total: £50
At midnight, I give up - there's no way I'll last until the coach arrives at 4.55am without sleeping. So I set my alarm for 2.30...
I wake up at 3.22, with my alarm clock several yards away from where it started, which means a rushed preparation for the day. I manage to leave the house at 3.53, meaning I have 62 minutes before the coach leaves. Regular followers will know that achieving this time would beat my current personal best of 63 minutes, and is well inside my most recent time of 69 minutes. Better get a stride on then.
I manage to arrive at 4.52 (59 minutes - a new personal best, and my legs hurt), and I just make the back of the queue as the last few passengers are being loaded. I sit about six seats from the front, right in front of some noisy little bastard whining at his parents. Everyone's soon asleep, though (didn't even need the chloroform I have in my bag) and I remain in that state until London. I enjoy breakfast at around 7.45, slightly more so because there's a woman at the next table frightened of letting her bags, which are a yard away, out of her sight for even a fraction of a second. She's been to London before, clearly.
Later, across the road, I watch with perverse amusement as a couple, easily in their early 60s, wrestle mentally and physically with the logistics of carrying about ten heavy bags between them. After a good two minutes of swapping and struggling (and falling backwards into the path of a bemused passing motorist) they finally decide on a configuration that works and make for the door of the station. Unfortuitously, the male half of the double act has become so cumbersome and ungainly with the sheer quantity of rucksacks and holdalls wrapped around his anatomy that he cannot fit through the double doors leading inside. Such is the delicacy of the balance, it's now down to his equally clueless sidekick to rearrange the bags yet again in order to ensure both that he can fit through and that he doesn't topple over. Moments later, the two are struggling towards their departure gate. Meanwhile, I'm amazed to realise that I've managed to keep a more-or-less straight face throughout their (presumably frustrating) ordeal.
With another hour to kill before my coach departs, I decide to wander in a direction chosen entirely at random, and end up walking in a 40-minute circle. Well that was fun. Back in the coach station, I walk through the departures building and towards the waiting area. I find myself quickly repelled by a strong smell, and retreat to find a seat near the appropriate gate. It seems someone has used part of the coach station as not only a bedroom but also as a toilet. It's not long before the 'Wet Floor' signs are out and the culprit is 'removed'.
I sit on the uncomfortable metal bench and wait. In the following minutes, as a young woman in an indescribably short and, considering the weather, inappropriate dress sits opposite and a man talks loudly into his mobile phone nearby, I make very brief conversation with a very nervous woman sitting to my left. And then the doors open.
As the coach pulls away from Victoria, I hear (through my half-sleep) that there will be a driver change at Leicester Forest East. Now that's annoyed me. Not for long though, because I fall asleep again and the next thing I know we're at Woodall services. Here, passengers are instructed very clearly not to bring hot food back on board, and to be back at 1.45 because the coach will be leaving then. So at 1.47, the last two passengers finally stroll back and climb aboard.
[I really hate it when people cannot follow a basic instruction. I hate it more when people, like this driver, accommodate such people by not fucking off at the right time and leaving the twats stranded.]
Around York, a woman whose age I'll estimate at 141 gets up from her seat, shuffles a little towards the back of the coach, then turns round and sits back down again. Presumably she decided against a toilet visit shortly after her initial opposite decision. Whether this is because she forgot where she was going, or she pissed herself and thought a toilet trip was now unnecessary, I couldn't guess.
Eventually, the coach pulls to a stop in familiar surroundings, and I see it again. Back in February, I described the following as the most soul-destroying words in the English language:
WELCOME TO MIDDLESBROUGH
Nothing in the intervening period has changed my mind.
A walk through the centre of Middlesbrough soon brings me to the off-site MFC club shop. Just the place to buy a mug. As I browse, I get talking to Keith. He's the security bloke here, and is a unbelievably nice man. Both Lauren and Alex are also very pleasant, although Lauren appears to know very little about what's going on around her.
Not far from the ground, I'm spotted by someone in a passing car - now I'm driving around with Paul, Janice and Helen. Owing to the fact that he's been here several times before, Paul knows exactly where to park. After an unusually convoluted trip around what appears to be an abandoned industrial estate, we're finally stationary. And almost alone.
We walk down to the ground before 7pm, and outside the ticket office we meet Cherie, my tour guide from my previous trip to the northeast. Eventually we make our way inside and to the seats. Shortly before kick-off, the seats around us fill up and I end up going to the seat named on my ticket, which is in the very back row.
The stewards spend the first twenty minutes of the match trying to get people to sit down, but give up after that when they realise nobody's going to listen. There's some decent noise being created, I'm happy with that. What I'm not happy with is the person who keeps making that awful stink. It's the sort of smell you'd expect from someone who's been eating lamb madras for every meal all week. Fortunately, the first half ends just at the point when my eyes are watering, and as there's an empty seat by Cherie I relocate back to where I started.
The second half represents an entertaining battle but it's the 83rd minute before any breakthrough is made. Matt Oakley centres for Lloyd Dyer to place a deflected shot into the back of Brad Jones' goal. During the following celebrations, I somehow get tangled up with the bloke next to me and almost rip the hood off his coat. The next ten minute period produces some nervy moments but City hold on for the first away win of the season.
On the way out, I say my goodbyes to P, J & H (it's quicker this way) and walk into town with Cherie for a quick drink in a nearby pub. As before, she gives me a lift back to the bus station and we part company again. Inside is Alan, trying to figure out which stand the coach departs from. One board appears to say stands 28-31, which are upstairs, while the one next to it suggests stand 33, which is across the road on the opposite side of the station. I'm pretty sure the 00.15 coach from Middlesbrough to London has always left from upstairs, and upon investigating we discover a couple of other people hoping that's still the case. We talk for the next hour until the 426 overnight service arrives, and I take a seat at the back - and fall asleep.
I cannot see Doncaster, because I'm asleep. That is, until the noisy cow sitting next to me starts talking loudly to her equally noisy family members. In my dazed state, I neglect to shout "it's half past two in the fucking morning! I've got work at 1 o'clock! Shut the fuck up!" in her face. Luckily for her, there's no further disturbance until London, where I have to get off anyway. Noisy bitch.
Another early morning breakfast (6.35) followed by a trip to the newsagent to pick up some reading material, and a trip to the little HMV in Victoria railway station (where I grab a three dvd pack of kids' films for £7 - that, along with the Simpsons game on Xbox 360 will keep Maniac Jr quiet for a few hours), before wandering back up to the coach station to witness a man reading - out loud and to himself - the sides of all the visible coaches.
Time to make a move towards the right gate. I sit down for a bit, and the girl opposite apparently notices that I'm observing our surroundings in much the same way she is - with amusement. Suddenly, she parks herself next to me, introduces herself as Jess and starts chattering away. She's inoffensive enough, and very small, so I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. Good decision as it turns out, because she's a nice kid.
Within 20 minutes of boarding the coach, I'm asleep yet again and only woken by the driver's announcement that we've arrived in Leicester. A weary stumble up the road and a bus trip later, I'm home at 11.32am. An hour and a half before I need to be at work...
Final score: Middlesbrough 0 Leicester 1
Time: 31 hours 39 minutes
Ticket: £26
Coach: £24
Total: £50
Just like old times
September 26th: Leicester City v Preston North End (Championship)
Blue Maniac's random updates, 26.09.09:
2.14pm: Leave the house.
2.32pm: Meet Paul, Janice, Helen and her quiet but apparently harmless housemate.
2.48pm: Take a seat in the southeast corner.
3.07pm: Robbie Neilson needs kicking in the bollocks.
3.26pm: Did I leave the tv on?
3.33pm: No I didn't.
3.42pm: Fucking Wayne fucking Brown.
3.48pm: What a terrible half.
3.57pm: Ooh, a birthday card. Haha, ginger.
4.05pm: No subs. Inexplicable.
4.37pm: Fuck this.
4.58pm: I'm off.
Final score: Leicester 1 Preston 2
Blue Maniac's random updates, 26.09.09:
2.14pm: Leave the house.
2.32pm: Meet Paul, Janice, Helen and her quiet but apparently harmless housemate.
2.48pm: Take a seat in the southeast corner.
3.07pm: Robbie Neilson needs kicking in the bollocks.
3.26pm: Did I leave the tv on?
3.33pm: No I didn't.
3.42pm: Fucking Wayne fucking Brown.
3.48pm: What a terrible half.
3.57pm: Ooh, a birthday card. Haha, ginger.
4.05pm: No subs. Inexplicable.
4.37pm: Fuck this.
4.58pm: I'm off.
Final score: Leicester 1 Preston 2
Déjà vu. Again.
September 19th: Watford v Leicester City (Championship)
As is the norm now, I leave the house while it's still dark. Even though Watford is a pretty straightforward trip, when I booked I decided an early start would be best because a) travelling through London can often be more complicated than is necessary, and b) it gives me time to have a wander around London, should I so wish. Even though I almost certainly won't.
At 4.35am I leave the house, and arrive at the bus station at 5.44. That's six minutes slower than I was doing it before, not sure what's happened there. Never mind, I'm still in time for the 5.50 bus. In fact, I have time to notice the looks on the faces of other people who are up at this time to catch a coach to London, and also the pool of green sick on the pavement near one of the benches. Interestingly, this is the only vacant seat.
The 440 turns up a few minutes late, and shortly everyone's loaded. I throw back a couple of paracetamol to deal with a monster headache I've had since I started my walk, and it does the trick almost straight away. I wake up briefly at Milton Keynes, then not again until London. Into the cafe for breakfast, then over to the railway station to buy a return ticket to Watford.
I go to the information point to enquire about the quickest/best way to get to Watford, and I'm advised to go to Euston. Makes perfect sense, but then I notice the ticket that the machine spat out stipulates a route: Clapham Junction. Seems like a lot of messing about. Not to worry, I'm told, because that ticket will allow me through Euston, via the underground. Brilliant. Down I go then to the Victoria line, and sure enough the ticket lets me through. Up to Euston, and round to the relevant platforms. The woman at the barrier points me towards a train, and tells me "get on that one, it'll be quicker." So on I get, not even stopping to read the screens. A London Midland employee is bound to be right, surely.
Well, as it turns out, no. The train starts moving, and I take a seat. Passengers are welcomed aboard the service by the driver, and he runs through the sequence of stops. I become concerned when I realise he said 'Leighton Buzzard' first. Now, I'm no expert on trains, but I'm pretty sure that Euston - Leighton Buzzard - Watford is an unlikely route. They're pretty much one direction from the off. So why the fuck am I going all the way to Leighton fucking Buzzard? I doubt this is going to be quicker than a train that goes, say, to Watford.
I alight at Leighton fucking Buzzard and switch platforms, and a couple of minutes later (fortunately for that cow at Euston) a southbound train arrives. Three stops later, I'm at Watford Junction. I take a walk around the town centre, but having never come here by train it's some time before I see anything familiar. Even then, it's only Bernie, who also hasn't got the first idea where the ground is. When I first catch sight of him, he's asking directions of a bloke giving out McDonalds coupons. Now Bernie, we both know that if this chap was capable of things like giving accurate directions, he'd not be out on a Saturday afternoon giving out McDonalds coupons. Nonetheless, we both follow said directions for about two streets before Bernie starts to wander off in a big loop back to where we started whilst mumbling to himself something about Elton John.
I wander for an hour or so in what I believe is the right direction before finally finding something that jogs the memory. Yes, I know where I am now, it's just up this street. Bingo, there's the, erm, 'stadium'.
Approaching 1 o'clock, I meet with Paul and Janice, and they show me to a cafe on the nearby precinct. The lunch that follows can only be described as perfect, well worth whatever it costs.
Inside the building site that is Vicarage Road stadium, we're in our row X seats by 2 o'clock. The screen in the corner to our right is showing Burnley v Sunderland, and I just about make out David Nugent scoring a peach for the Clarets. The Vicarage Road stand fills up around us, and inevitably there are dozens who end up standing.
With the game less than 20 minutes old, John Eustace (ex-Cov) inexplicably hits the ball with his arm in his own penalty area. Matty Fryatt smacks the resulting penalty past Scott Loach for 1-0. Five minutes before half time Fryatt runs down the left and cuts inside Craig Cathcart before slotting a second in the far corner. At half time, City are 2-0 up and the game looks all but won.
At half time, something happens. Raffle or summat.
The beginning of the second half sees the introduction to the fray (and return to Watford) of Heidar Helguson, and also a shift in formation for the home side. Malky Mackay has apparently decided that two up front is the way to go, hence the substitution. Within quarter of an hour, he's proved right as first Danny Graham and, two minutes later, Helguson both convert from right-wing crosses. Thirteen minutes from time, the unthinkable happens - the Hornets grab a third, and it's Helguson again. Looks like it went in off his knee. Fucking shitty cunting fuck.
After Helguson goes off injured, City produce a few chances to pull level again, but it appears nothing will go in. That is, until Martyn Waghorn bursts down the left and hooks in a cross right at Dany N'Guessan, whose header floats impressively inside the far post with Loach stranded. Lovely stuff.
Time to get back to the station. Having paid precisely zero attention to my own movements earlier on, I'm more or less guessing. This is where I learn something very important about Watford: whatever you do, don't follow the signs. An hour after the game finishes, I finally reach Watford Junction station. Sitting on the train, I check my pockets. Not in that one, or that one. Hmm. Where's that gone? I'm sure I had it after I left the cafe. I definitely had it in the stadium, because I remember reading it. Nope, gone. My coach ticket's vanished, and I'm pretty sure I lost it when that third goal went in. I got pulled down almost two rows, my shirt is now three sizes bigger and I'm pretty sure my boxers are ripped. And apparently, I'm a coach ticket down.
Shortly before 7pm, I'm back at Euston. That fucking woman who put me on the wrong train is gone. Now I'll never get to throw her hat onto the tracks. Never mind.
Downstairs I go, but I discover that my ticket won't allow me through to the platform for the Victoria line. Then I remember why: my ticket is subject to a specified route. Despite being allowed through this way this morning, it appears I can't do the reverse on the same ticket. Remembering that my destination - Victoria - is only four stops away, I go to a ticket machine to buy a single ticket. The machine requests four pounds, and is justifiably instructed to fuck off. No chance whatsoever that I'm pulling out another four quid.
The only option, then, is to go back upstairs and get a train back out to Willesden Junction (eighteen minutes) then another down to Clapham Junction (twenty minutes) and a third to Victoria (seven minutes). It would've been about ten on the tube. Never mind, it's killed time I would've otherwise spent sitting on a cold bench at the coach station.
The first person I ask for help at the coach station suggests I talk to a member of Leicester Express staff, whoever the hell they are. The second suggests I go to the internet cafe in arrivals and get my ticket reference number. Said internet cafe is closed. The third is the driver of the 440, fifteen minutes before departure. The fourth is the woman he points to sitting at gate 16. She directs me to a little door across the station, behind which is Charles. Charles sits me down at a computer screen in his office and gets me to print my ticket off again, and after thanking him (for apparently being the only person in both London and National Express who has a fucking clue how either works) I leave. Two minutes before departure, I wave my new ticket at the driver and take a seat halfway to the back.
I spent half an hour talking to Nikki, who sits opposite, before falling into an inevitable and spine-twistingly uncomfortable sleep. The coach arrives in Leicester at 11.45pm, and I walk home is exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of blister-maddening agony. I'm fucked.
Final score: Watford 3 Leicester 3
Time: 20 hours 25 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Coach: £10
Train: £8.10
Total: £40.60
As is the norm now, I leave the house while it's still dark. Even though Watford is a pretty straightforward trip, when I booked I decided an early start would be best because a) travelling through London can often be more complicated than is necessary, and b) it gives me time to have a wander around London, should I so wish. Even though I almost certainly won't.
At 4.35am I leave the house, and arrive at the bus station at 5.44. That's six minutes slower than I was doing it before, not sure what's happened there. Never mind, I'm still in time for the 5.50 bus. In fact, I have time to notice the looks on the faces of other people who are up at this time to catch a coach to London, and also the pool of green sick on the pavement near one of the benches. Interestingly, this is the only vacant seat.
The 440 turns up a few minutes late, and shortly everyone's loaded. I throw back a couple of paracetamol to deal with a monster headache I've had since I started my walk, and it does the trick almost straight away. I wake up briefly at Milton Keynes, then not again until London. Into the cafe for breakfast, then over to the railway station to buy a return ticket to Watford.
I go to the information point to enquire about the quickest/best way to get to Watford, and I'm advised to go to Euston. Makes perfect sense, but then I notice the ticket that the machine spat out stipulates a route: Clapham Junction. Seems like a lot of messing about. Not to worry, I'm told, because that ticket will allow me through Euston, via the underground. Brilliant. Down I go then to the Victoria line, and sure enough the ticket lets me through. Up to Euston, and round to the relevant platforms. The woman at the barrier points me towards a train, and tells me "get on that one, it'll be quicker." So on I get, not even stopping to read the screens. A London Midland employee is bound to be right, surely.
Well, as it turns out, no. The train starts moving, and I take a seat. Passengers are welcomed aboard the service by the driver, and he runs through the sequence of stops. I become concerned when I realise he said 'Leighton Buzzard' first. Now, I'm no expert on trains, but I'm pretty sure that Euston - Leighton Buzzard - Watford is an unlikely route. They're pretty much one direction from the off. So why the fuck am I going all the way to Leighton fucking Buzzard? I doubt this is going to be quicker than a train that goes, say, to Watford.
I alight at Leighton fucking Buzzard and switch platforms, and a couple of minutes later (fortunately for that cow at Euston) a southbound train arrives. Three stops later, I'm at Watford Junction. I take a walk around the town centre, but having never come here by train it's some time before I see anything familiar. Even then, it's only Bernie, who also hasn't got the first idea where the ground is. When I first catch sight of him, he's asking directions of a bloke giving out McDonalds coupons. Now Bernie, we both know that if this chap was capable of things like giving accurate directions, he'd not be out on a Saturday afternoon giving out McDonalds coupons. Nonetheless, we both follow said directions for about two streets before Bernie starts to wander off in a big loop back to where we started whilst mumbling to himself something about Elton John.
I wander for an hour or so in what I believe is the right direction before finally finding something that jogs the memory. Yes, I know where I am now, it's just up this street. Bingo, there's the, erm, 'stadium'.
Approaching 1 o'clock, I meet with Paul and Janice, and they show me to a cafe on the nearby precinct. The lunch that follows can only be described as perfect, well worth whatever it costs.
Inside the building site that is Vicarage Road stadium, we're in our row X seats by 2 o'clock. The screen in the corner to our right is showing Burnley v Sunderland, and I just about make out David Nugent scoring a peach for the Clarets. The Vicarage Road stand fills up around us, and inevitably there are dozens who end up standing.
With the game less than 20 minutes old, John Eustace (ex-Cov) inexplicably hits the ball with his arm in his own penalty area. Matty Fryatt smacks the resulting penalty past Scott Loach for 1-0. Five minutes before half time Fryatt runs down the left and cuts inside Craig Cathcart before slotting a second in the far corner. At half time, City are 2-0 up and the game looks all but won.
At half time, something happens. Raffle or summat.
The beginning of the second half sees the introduction to the fray (and return to Watford) of Heidar Helguson, and also a shift in formation for the home side. Malky Mackay has apparently decided that two up front is the way to go, hence the substitution. Within quarter of an hour, he's proved right as first Danny Graham and, two minutes later, Helguson both convert from right-wing crosses. Thirteen minutes from time, the unthinkable happens - the Hornets grab a third, and it's Helguson again. Looks like it went in off his knee. Fucking shitty cunting fuck.
After Helguson goes off injured, City produce a few chances to pull level again, but it appears nothing will go in. That is, until Martyn Waghorn bursts down the left and hooks in a cross right at Dany N'Guessan, whose header floats impressively inside the far post with Loach stranded. Lovely stuff.
Time to get back to the station. Having paid precisely zero attention to my own movements earlier on, I'm more or less guessing. This is where I learn something very important about Watford: whatever you do, don't follow the signs. An hour after the game finishes, I finally reach Watford Junction station. Sitting on the train, I check my pockets. Not in that one, or that one. Hmm. Where's that gone? I'm sure I had it after I left the cafe. I definitely had it in the stadium, because I remember reading it. Nope, gone. My coach ticket's vanished, and I'm pretty sure I lost it when that third goal went in. I got pulled down almost two rows, my shirt is now three sizes bigger and I'm pretty sure my boxers are ripped. And apparently, I'm a coach ticket down.
Shortly before 7pm, I'm back at Euston. That fucking woman who put me on the wrong train is gone. Now I'll never get to throw her hat onto the tracks. Never mind.
Downstairs I go, but I discover that my ticket won't allow me through to the platform for the Victoria line. Then I remember why: my ticket is subject to a specified route. Despite being allowed through this way this morning, it appears I can't do the reverse on the same ticket. Remembering that my destination - Victoria - is only four stops away, I go to a ticket machine to buy a single ticket. The machine requests four pounds, and is justifiably instructed to fuck off. No chance whatsoever that I'm pulling out another four quid.
The only option, then, is to go back upstairs and get a train back out to Willesden Junction (eighteen minutes) then another down to Clapham Junction (twenty minutes) and a third to Victoria (seven minutes). It would've been about ten on the tube. Never mind, it's killed time I would've otherwise spent sitting on a cold bench at the coach station.
The first person I ask for help at the coach station suggests I talk to a member of Leicester Express staff, whoever the hell they are. The second suggests I go to the internet cafe in arrivals and get my ticket reference number. Said internet cafe is closed. The third is the driver of the 440, fifteen minutes before departure. The fourth is the woman he points to sitting at gate 16. She directs me to a little door across the station, behind which is Charles. Charles sits me down at a computer screen in his office and gets me to print my ticket off again, and after thanking him (for apparently being the only person in both London and National Express who has a fucking clue how either works) I leave. Two minutes before departure, I wave my new ticket at the driver and take a seat halfway to the back.
I spent half an hour talking to Nikki, who sits opposite, before falling into an inevitable and spine-twistingly uncomfortable sleep. The coach arrives in Leicester at 11.45pm, and I walk home is exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of blister-maddening agony. I'm fucked.
Final score: Watford 3 Leicester 3
Time: 20 hours 25 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Coach: £10
Train: £8.10
Total: £40.60
The streak continues
September 15th: Leicester City v Peterborough United (Championship)
The hi-tech ultra-reliable electronic bus stop (which uses GPS and has an in-built voice-activated timetable and coffee vending machine and is definitely not a simple random number generator, honest) says the next bus is in 39 minutes, but that's obviously a lie because I can see one going in the opposite direction, and it's not going to take him 39 minutes to turn round and come back. Two minutes later, the number has been replaced by a small dot. Two more minutes, it now says 2 minutes. Five minutes later, it's down to 1 minute, and five minutes after that the bus arrives.
For reasons I'll not disclose, I'm furious. This has been the case since long before I left work at 5pm. Suffice to say I need something to ease the tension. I need good people. Thankfully, there are some around, and I take a seat among them some ten minutes before kick-off. An entertaining first half ensues. City's Wayne Brown has a woeful first half hour, and caps his first-half 'performance' by having a wrestling match with Aaron McLean in the penalty box. The referee takes approximately a third of a second to point to the spot, and George Boyd steps up to put Peterborough in front.
[By all accounts, this penalty could easily have been given as a free kick the other way. Alas, it wasn't.]
At half time, we're, erm, treated to another tombola or some fucking thing. Some numbers are pulled out and some people I've never heard of win some shite. End.
The players come out for the second half - City have made two changes. It's no surprise to see Wayne Brown taken off for Aleksandr Tunchev, and Dany N'Guessan is removed in favour of Andy King. Two minutes into the second half, a Robbie Neilson shot is handballed on the line and the referee points to the same spot again. Matty Fryatt smashes the ball past the thus-far erratic Joe Lewis.
The rest of the second half produces some entertaining football but no further goals. The streak goes on - no home defeat in a little over a year now. That said, I would have much preferred a win tonight, for the following three reasons:
1. To keep the 100% home record this season.
2. Because Peterborough aren't really that good, despite what several publications will tell you about them being the best side since the Hungary team of 1953 with Nándor Hidegkuti and Ferenc Puskás, or Darren Ferguson being a football genius to rival Rinus Michels, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Sir Matt Busby, Ernst Happel, Brian Clough, Jose Mourinho, Arrigo Sacchi, Miguel Munoz, Jock Stein and Johan Cruyff. And Claude Anelka.
3. Peterborough fans seem to think we're their rivals now they're in our league (albeit for one season). Even though we aren't, it's still nice to give the teams who are desperate to beat you a good shoeing.
Another half-hour walk home, another run-in with that old bastard with the dog (first time in nearly a year, but he still recognises me), and another night of quiet contemplation of the next game. Twelve points from seven games - I'm happy with that. I've almost forgotten what it was that made me so livid earlier on. Almost.
Roll on Saturday.
Final score: Leicester 1 Peterborough 1
The hi-tech ultra-reliable electronic bus stop (which uses GPS and has an in-built voice-activated timetable and coffee vending machine and is definitely not a simple random number generator, honest) says the next bus is in 39 minutes, but that's obviously a lie because I can see one going in the opposite direction, and it's not going to take him 39 minutes to turn round and come back. Two minutes later, the number has been replaced by a small dot. Two more minutes, it now says 2 minutes. Five minutes later, it's down to 1 minute, and five minutes after that the bus arrives.
For reasons I'll not disclose, I'm furious. This has been the case since long before I left work at 5pm. Suffice to say I need something to ease the tension. I need good people. Thankfully, there are some around, and I take a seat among them some ten minutes before kick-off. An entertaining first half ensues. City's Wayne Brown has a woeful first half hour, and caps his first-half 'performance' by having a wrestling match with Aaron McLean in the penalty box. The referee takes approximately a third of a second to point to the spot, and George Boyd steps up to put Peterborough in front.
[By all accounts, this penalty could easily have been given as a free kick the other way. Alas, it wasn't.]
At half time, we're, erm, treated to another tombola or some fucking thing. Some numbers are pulled out and some people I've never heard of win some shite. End.
The players come out for the second half - City have made two changes. It's no surprise to see Wayne Brown taken off for Aleksandr Tunchev, and Dany N'Guessan is removed in favour of Andy King. Two minutes into the second half, a Robbie Neilson shot is handballed on the line and the referee points to the same spot again. Matty Fryatt smashes the ball past the thus-far erratic Joe Lewis.
The rest of the second half produces some entertaining football but no further goals. The streak goes on - no home defeat in a little over a year now. That said, I would have much preferred a win tonight, for the following three reasons:
1. To keep the 100% home record this season.
2. Because Peterborough aren't really that good, despite what several publications will tell you about them being the best side since the Hungary team of 1953 with Nándor Hidegkuti and Ferenc Puskás, or Darren Ferguson being a football genius to rival Rinus Michels, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Sir Matt Busby, Ernst Happel, Brian Clough, Jose Mourinho, Arrigo Sacchi, Miguel Munoz, Jock Stein and Johan Cruyff. And Claude Anelka.
3. Peterborough fans seem to think we're their rivals now they're in our league (albeit for one season). Even though we aren't, it's still nice to give the teams who are desperate to beat you a good shoeing.
Another half-hour walk home, another run-in with that old bastard with the dog (first time in nearly a year, but he still recognises me), and another night of quiet contemplation of the next game. Twelve points from seven games - I'm happy with that. I've almost forgotten what it was that made me so livid earlier on. Almost.
Roll on Saturday.
Final score: Leicester 1 Peterborough 1
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