December 28th: Leicester City v Hereford United (League One)
Not long after I finish the previous entry on this page I make a leisurely walk towards the stadium to see a home game against the second-bottom club in the division. This will be our first ever league meeting with the Bulls, who borrowed Bruno N'Gotty earlier this season, and he got injured. I still manage to arrive early despite walking as slowly as possible, and have plenty of time to hand over fifteen quid (still far too much) for Saturday's FA Cup game against Crystal Palace. As a reward for this I'm also handed a 20% off voucher for the club shop. Yay! Or not.
I won't be in my usual seat today, there's a spare one next to Ben, so we'll be talking shit for the next couple of hours. We've already had a laugh via text about Newcastle's 5-1 home reverse to Liverpool. It's just too funny not to laugh. Nine minutes into the game, a presumably heartbroken (Newcastle fan) Steve Howard pokes in from close range to open the scoring. The tone of the game suggests City could score any number today. They almost certainly won't though. The Foxes control the rest of the first half, but don't hit the net again. Meanwhile, I observe the idiocy of the group of lads in front of us. One, however, amuses both of us when he yells "y' fat cunt" to someone about half a block away.
At half time, some chavvy teenage girl with an orange face climbs on the seat next to us and starts chatting to the equally chavvy teenage lad in the box behind. I give serious thought to sweeping her feet off the seat but decide it might be considered assault. Ben pisses off to get a Bovril - very welcome, it's suddenly very cold. The twats in front of us have moved back several rows, and are now immediately in front. I've got a feeling they're going to be annoying.
The second half starts much as the first finished, but it's the 71st minute before City double their lead, Andy King firing in from the edge of the box to secure the win. Sure enough, the twatters in front have been fucking about to an annoying extreme, obscuring my view of the game with constant pissing about, standing up, play fighting and so on. These aren't twelve year olds by the way, they're adults. Ten minutes from the end, Karl Broadhurst heads in a free kick to pull the visitors back into the game, but the comeback never materialises and City see the game out, far more comfortably than the scoreline suggests. I'm far more grateful for the fact that the aforementioned arseholes have gone than I am for the win. That said, it's very welcome.
Final score: Leicester 2 Hereford 1
I hate hotel showers
December 26th: Leeds United v Leicester City (League One)
I'll admit it. This is the one I've been looking forward to. When the fixtures came out in the summer, when the seal on our relegation papers was barely dry, I looked immediately for Leeds away. I'm sure a lot of fans of clubs in this division did the same. Well, they probably did it second, but they had the added excitement of looking for Leicester away as well. So when I found out it was Boxing Day, I was bouncing off the walls. For my second confession, you might be surprised to learn I've never been to Elland Road. For one reason or another (not having a job, living in Australia, that sort of thing), I've always missed trips to Leeds. Not this time though.
So it is then that whereas when I was six I would have spent most of December looking forward to the 25th, when I'd invariably be disappointed to get a couple of tenners and some pants (and fuck all off the old man, but that's another, much longer and far more tedious, story), at the age of 26 I find myself far more excited by the 26th. On the big day, the 320 to Leeds leaves Leicester dead on time at 10.05, and in no time we're in Nottingham. This is where a young bloke and his girlfriend take a seat in front of me, and he spots my shirt. "It'll all come to an end today mate." A Leeds fan. Nice chap as it turns out, and we occasionally swap opinions on football issues to pass the time in the Nottingham to Sheffield leg of the journey. It's just dawned on me that two of the nicest people I've met this season have been Millwall and Leeds fans.
Finally we arrive in Leeds, and he directs me to the town centre and off I go in search of food. I don't find any, so I look at the map I managed to print off from multimap.com. I'm fucked if I can find the road I'm standing on, so I look at the adjacent roads, and the ones running across it. Nothing. It seems the Leeds in the map in my hand bears little resemblance to the Leeds that exists in West Yorkshire. Finally I spot a similarity and start to work out what's what, and... nope, fuck it, not happening. So I get a taxi instead. This gets me within two minutes' walk of the stadium just as I get a phone call from Ben, making his first away trip of the season, which is an amazing fact for anyone who knows him. He's standing outside the east stand, so he'll be easy to find.
In the ground, there's plenty of time for a bit of food. The pricing inside the stadium is a bit more reasonable than you'd normally find at a football ground (certainly more so than the Walkers) so a cheeseburger (very edible, almost 'good' in fact) is in order. A quick chat, and up the stairs to the upper section of the south east corner. I find my seat, an achievement which appears to be beyond a lot of my fellow Foxes. Presumably the sequential seat numbering was too much for them to comprehend ("You mean 55 is between 54 and 56? How the hell are we going to work this out?"). Either that or the fact that the rows are in alphabetical order.
Plenty of noise builds up in the minutes before kick off, and the atmosphere is superb. As the game starts, City take early control, but still manage to allow the home side a couple of opportunities, one of which is cleared off the line. On 25 minutes, Matty Fryatt plays a ball through to Matt Oakley, who hits a ruthless finish past Casper Ankergren, the second most stupidly named goalkeeper in the division (first being Stockport's Owain fon Williams, obviously). Towards the end of the half, United take a bit of initiative but cannot break through. It needs to tighten up at the back or they'll score.
At half time, Ben makes his way over from his seat for a quick chat. We exchange stories about the people next to us. I've been lumbered with three council estate chimps to my left, and in front of me is a girl of about 13, who keeps standing up when it's not called for, and who apparently knows one of the chimps through his son. They've been exchanging inappropriate comments throughout the first half. Ben has got an old bloke who keeps making the same shit joke. I advise him that he should be hitting that bloke by now.
As the second half progresses, Leeds appear completely unable to pose any type of threat. City go close a couple of times, Leeds not so. At least one Leeds player should have been sent off by now. The girl in front is still standing up for no fucking reason every few seconds. As if the supporting pillar in front of me wasn't bad enough.
[By the way, I don't expect to pay £27 for a partial view of the pitch. Rip off pack of Yorkshire twats.]
A double substitution on 76 minutes for Leeds introduces Robert Snodgrass and Jonny Howson to the game. In the second minute of injury time, Howson chips a ball towards Snodgrass at the back post, who smashes home a dramatic equaliser. That's what happens when you don't kill teams off. Good luck to Leeds, they've worked hard even though they've been outplayed and have dragged a point out of a game which most teams would have lost. I'm sure Larry will be happy with that.
Back into town to find my hotel now. I'm booked at the Leeds Central Travelodge, for the bargain price of £19. So I find the Travelodge I saw earlier in the centre of Leeds (I figure the name is a dead giveaway), only to find that I'm not booked in. This is Leeds Central right? No, it isn't. I'm given directions to the right hotel, and it turns out that the one they call Leeds Central is not in central Leeds. Rather obviously, it's just outside the city centre, nearer Leeds station. Ten minutes later, I arrive at the right building, and find Amanda, who appears to be a member of a club whose membership seems to be falling - The People Who Can Actually Do The Job They Are Paid For Club. You will not find these people in many places in 2008, least of all in shops, hotels or call centres. Within seconds, I've been given a room key, informed of its other functions (it operates the lift, for instance), and given directions to the bar. It turns out Amanda is also working the bar, for as soon as I'm dealt with, she's off to the other end of the room to serve drinks. So she's actually doing two jobs, and has been since 7am. Travelodge - give her a pay rise. Now.
It's a little-known fact that Travelodge is actually Greek for 'shit hotel'. No it isn't. I get to my room to discover the very basics - still not bad for £19. I didn't expect to have to wash the cups in the room though, even at that price. The next three hours is spent looking for somewhere to eat dinner (I eventaully decide on an Indian takeaway, which is eaten in the room. It's not important where I got it, you don't need to go there), having brief chats with Amanda or anyone else I can find (I have to talk to someone, or I'll go shit mental) and thinking of other things to fill time. I notice that Match of the Day starts at 11.05. I fall asleep at a time I now estimate to be 11.04 and 55 seconds.
The following morning, I decide a cooked breakfast is required, so after watching the MotD repeat I grab my stuff together and go in search of a cafe. The one I find, called Olympia (I think), is superb. Definitely the best breakfast I've had on the road this season. I finish up just in time for the coach leaving at 1. Nothing of interest happens on the coach journey, and I find myself back at my front door at 4.30. One hundred per cent worth it.
Final score: Leeds 1 Leicester 1
Ticket: £27
Coach: £28
Taxi: £11.40
Hotel: £19
Total: £85.40
I'll admit it. This is the one I've been looking forward to. When the fixtures came out in the summer, when the seal on our relegation papers was barely dry, I looked immediately for Leeds away. I'm sure a lot of fans of clubs in this division did the same. Well, they probably did it second, but they had the added excitement of looking for Leicester away as well. So when I found out it was Boxing Day, I was bouncing off the walls. For my second confession, you might be surprised to learn I've never been to Elland Road. For one reason or another (not having a job, living in Australia, that sort of thing), I've always missed trips to Leeds. Not this time though.
So it is then that whereas when I was six I would have spent most of December looking forward to the 25th, when I'd invariably be disappointed to get a couple of tenners and some pants (and fuck all off the old man, but that's another, much longer and far more tedious, story), at the age of 26 I find myself far more excited by the 26th. On the big day, the 320 to Leeds leaves Leicester dead on time at 10.05, and in no time we're in Nottingham. This is where a young bloke and his girlfriend take a seat in front of me, and he spots my shirt. "It'll all come to an end today mate." A Leeds fan. Nice chap as it turns out, and we occasionally swap opinions on football issues to pass the time in the Nottingham to Sheffield leg of the journey. It's just dawned on me that two of the nicest people I've met this season have been Millwall and Leeds fans.
Finally we arrive in Leeds, and he directs me to the town centre and off I go in search of food. I don't find any, so I look at the map I managed to print off from multimap.com. I'm fucked if I can find the road I'm standing on, so I look at the adjacent roads, and the ones running across it. Nothing. It seems the Leeds in the map in my hand bears little resemblance to the Leeds that exists in West Yorkshire. Finally I spot a similarity and start to work out what's what, and... nope, fuck it, not happening. So I get a taxi instead. This gets me within two minutes' walk of the stadium just as I get a phone call from Ben, making his first away trip of the season, which is an amazing fact for anyone who knows him. He's standing outside the east stand, so he'll be easy to find.
In the ground, there's plenty of time for a bit of food. The pricing inside the stadium is a bit more reasonable than you'd normally find at a football ground (certainly more so than the Walkers) so a cheeseburger (very edible, almost 'good' in fact) is in order. A quick chat, and up the stairs to the upper section of the south east corner. I find my seat, an achievement which appears to be beyond a lot of my fellow Foxes. Presumably the sequential seat numbering was too much for them to comprehend ("You mean 55 is between 54 and 56? How the hell are we going to work this out?"). Either that or the fact that the rows are in alphabetical order.
Plenty of noise builds up in the minutes before kick off, and the atmosphere is superb. As the game starts, City take early control, but still manage to allow the home side a couple of opportunities, one of which is cleared off the line. On 25 minutes, Matty Fryatt plays a ball through to Matt Oakley, who hits a ruthless finish past Casper Ankergren, the second most stupidly named goalkeeper in the division (first being Stockport's Owain fon Williams, obviously). Towards the end of the half, United take a bit of initiative but cannot break through. It needs to tighten up at the back or they'll score.
At half time, Ben makes his way over from his seat for a quick chat. We exchange stories about the people next to us. I've been lumbered with three council estate chimps to my left, and in front of me is a girl of about 13, who keeps standing up when it's not called for, and who apparently knows one of the chimps through his son. They've been exchanging inappropriate comments throughout the first half. Ben has got an old bloke who keeps making the same shit joke. I advise him that he should be hitting that bloke by now.
As the second half progresses, Leeds appear completely unable to pose any type of threat. City go close a couple of times, Leeds not so. At least one Leeds player should have been sent off by now. The girl in front is still standing up for no fucking reason every few seconds. As if the supporting pillar in front of me wasn't bad enough.
[By the way, I don't expect to pay £27 for a partial view of the pitch. Rip off pack of Yorkshire twats.]
A double substitution on 76 minutes for Leeds introduces Robert Snodgrass and Jonny Howson to the game. In the second minute of injury time, Howson chips a ball towards Snodgrass at the back post, who smashes home a dramatic equaliser. That's what happens when you don't kill teams off. Good luck to Leeds, they've worked hard even though they've been outplayed and have dragged a point out of a game which most teams would have lost. I'm sure Larry will be happy with that.
Back into town to find my hotel now. I'm booked at the Leeds Central Travelodge, for the bargain price of £19. So I find the Travelodge I saw earlier in the centre of Leeds (I figure the name is a dead giveaway), only to find that I'm not booked in. This is Leeds Central right? No, it isn't. I'm given directions to the right hotel, and it turns out that the one they call Leeds Central is not in central Leeds. Rather obviously, it's just outside the city centre, nearer Leeds station. Ten minutes later, I arrive at the right building, and find Amanda, who appears to be a member of a club whose membership seems to be falling - The People Who Can Actually Do The Job They Are Paid For Club. You will not find these people in many places in 2008, least of all in shops, hotels or call centres. Within seconds, I've been given a room key, informed of its other functions (it operates the lift, for instance), and given directions to the bar. It turns out Amanda is also working the bar, for as soon as I'm dealt with, she's off to the other end of the room to serve drinks. So she's actually doing two jobs, and has been since 7am. Travelodge - give her a pay rise. Now.
It's a little-known fact that Travelodge is actually Greek for 'shit hotel'. No it isn't. I get to my room to discover the very basics - still not bad for £19. I didn't expect to have to wash the cups in the room though, even at that price. The next three hours is spent looking for somewhere to eat dinner (I eventaully decide on an Indian takeaway, which is eaten in the room. It's not important where I got it, you don't need to go there), having brief chats with Amanda or anyone else I can find (I have to talk to someone, or I'll go shit mental) and thinking of other things to fill time. I notice that Match of the Day starts at 11.05. I fall asleep at a time I now estimate to be 11.04 and 55 seconds.
The following morning, I decide a cooked breakfast is required, so after watching the MotD repeat I grab my stuff together and go in search of a cafe. The one I find, called Olympia (I think), is superb. Definitely the best breakfast I've had on the road this season. I finish up just in time for the coach leaving at 1. Nothing of interest happens on the coach journey, and I find myself back at my front door at 4.30. One hundred per cent worth it.
Final score: Leeds 1 Leicester 1
Ticket: £27
Coach: £28
Taxi: £11.40
Hotel: £19
Total: £85.40
She will not stop
December 20th: Leicester City v Peterborough United (League One)
The last update until after Boxing Day so I'd like to say Merry Christmas to anyone reading this. Actually, I don't give a toss what kind of Christmas you have, you can disappear up your own arse for all I care. Another home game, which means there's no long trip to talk about today, just what should be a good game with one of the league's better sides. That and, of course, what you came here for: my irritation at the people around me. Five minutes before kick off I take my seat and it begins pretty early - two people arrive just after the start to take their seats. The only reason anyone does this is to annoy the people who have to stand up again to let them through. I hate these people. Six minutes in, all annoyance is temporarily forgotten as Craig Morgan somehow hacks a right wing cross behind him and past his own keeper (one time England squad member and possible future number one Joe Lewis). This is a good break for City as United have perhaps been slightly better in the early minutes.
Soon I'm back to annoyed as the screaming wench and her idiot friend start up again. This shrieking was funny the first time, tiresome the second, and downright infuriating thereafter. This is the eleventh time I've had to put up with this now, so it's getting to the point where I'm starting to consider buying myself an alibi for a future murder. That sounds extreme when you first hear it but it isn't. You try sitting near them and tell me you don't feel the same way. In fact, in a genuine offer to any LCFC season ticket holders, I'd like to suggest a seat swap for, say, three games. Then if don't want to strangle this woman, I'll buy you dinner.
[The word 'genuine' as used in the above paragraph is not to be confused with the word 'genuine' as it appears in the Oxford English Dictionary. It has its own definition which appears to be the exact opposite of that of the actual word 'genuine'.]
On 38, Matty Fryatt nods past Lewis and executes a neat finish into the far corner. As we come towards the end of the half, I expect to be forced to stand up by the idiots getting pies. Sure enough, on 43 minutes that's exactly what happens. These people should be banned from attending sporting events.
At half time, I decide to sit down and have a quick read of the 'newspaper' I bought earlier. It's not a real newspaper, it's a Daily Star, but I have a good reason - it's Saturday and the football crossword, despite frequent horrible errors, is the only good thing to ever appear in this rag. The entertainment drawn from doing this is almost worth the 60p. No it's not.
[Why are newspapers so expensive? If the Star was a legitimate news publication - which it is most certainly not - I'd be happy to pay, say, fifteen or twenty pence for it. If the Daily Mail was not a right-wing propaganda sheet - which it most certainly is - I'd be more than willing to part with a few pennies. As it is, however, they are respectively a pretend jazz mag and a scaremongering rag with the sole goal of scaring the British public into vigilante action against immigrants and kid touchers. In terms of quality, charging 50p for the Mail is like charging £85 for the Telegraph, which is too expensive already. Really, two quid for a Sunday paper. Christ.]
Unfortunately, half time is interrupted by people going to the toilet, requiring me to stand up. This is not a problem. What is a problem is the bloke two seats to my left who insists on leaving, coming back, then pissing off again, which of course means he'll be returning about two minutes after the second half commences. Yes, there he is, 47th minute and he's back. In an ideal world, anybody turning up late for the game or not back in their seat by the beginning of the half would be prevented from taking their seat and preferably sent away with directions to the rugby ground, but this is clearly an unworkable rule and I am occasionally a realist.
In the second half, Aaron McLean finds a bit of space and smashed a shot towards David Martin's goal, but it hits the side netting. This last fact is quite obvious to everyone sitting in the stadium except, it seems, the visiting Peterborough contingent, who proceed to go mental for the next five seconds. Only when Martin places the ball for a goal kick does their excitement begin to die down.
[Usually I use these parantheses to moan about something - if you don't like it, may I invite you to fuck right off. But a word must be said about the Peterborough support at today's game. There's thousands of them, and they're noisy. That's real support, so take note fans of Stevenage and Southend. Make some noise, it's more fun that way.]
Twenty minutes from the end, Andy King heads in at the near post from a free kick on the right, and the game is over as a contest. More than a few Posh fans vacate their seats. The screeching has abated and it seems I'm almost enjoying a home game. The day is confirmed as a good one when Steve Howard fires in from outside the box for his first goal in thirteen games. I make my way home satisfied yet again, and looking forward to next Friday's visit to Leeds.
Final score: Leicester 4 Peterborough 0
The last update until after Boxing Day so I'd like to say Merry Christmas to anyone reading this. Actually, I don't give a toss what kind of Christmas you have, you can disappear up your own arse for all I care. Another home game, which means there's no long trip to talk about today, just what should be a good game with one of the league's better sides. That and, of course, what you came here for: my irritation at the people around me. Five minutes before kick off I take my seat and it begins pretty early - two people arrive just after the start to take their seats. The only reason anyone does this is to annoy the people who have to stand up again to let them through. I hate these people. Six minutes in, all annoyance is temporarily forgotten as Craig Morgan somehow hacks a right wing cross behind him and past his own keeper (one time England squad member and possible future number one Joe Lewis). This is a good break for City as United have perhaps been slightly better in the early minutes.
Soon I'm back to annoyed as the screaming wench and her idiot friend start up again. This shrieking was funny the first time, tiresome the second, and downright infuriating thereafter. This is the eleventh time I've had to put up with this now, so it's getting to the point where I'm starting to consider buying myself an alibi for a future murder. That sounds extreme when you first hear it but it isn't. You try sitting near them and tell me you don't feel the same way. In fact, in a genuine offer to any LCFC season ticket holders, I'd like to suggest a seat swap for, say, three games. Then if don't want to strangle this woman, I'll buy you dinner.
[The word 'genuine' as used in the above paragraph is not to be confused with the word 'genuine' as it appears in the Oxford English Dictionary. It has its own definition which appears to be the exact opposite of that of the actual word 'genuine'.]
On 38, Matty Fryatt nods past Lewis and executes a neat finish into the far corner. As we come towards the end of the half, I expect to be forced to stand up by the idiots getting pies. Sure enough, on 43 minutes that's exactly what happens. These people should be banned from attending sporting events.
At half time, I decide to sit down and have a quick read of the 'newspaper' I bought earlier. It's not a real newspaper, it's a Daily Star, but I have a good reason - it's Saturday and the football crossword, despite frequent horrible errors, is the only good thing to ever appear in this rag. The entertainment drawn from doing this is almost worth the 60p. No it's not.
[Why are newspapers so expensive? If the Star was a legitimate news publication - which it is most certainly not - I'd be happy to pay, say, fifteen or twenty pence for it. If the Daily Mail was not a right-wing propaganda sheet - which it most certainly is - I'd be more than willing to part with a few pennies. As it is, however, they are respectively a pretend jazz mag and a scaremongering rag with the sole goal of scaring the British public into vigilante action against immigrants and kid touchers. In terms of quality, charging 50p for the Mail is like charging £85 for the Telegraph, which is too expensive already. Really, two quid for a Sunday paper. Christ.]
Unfortunately, half time is interrupted by people going to the toilet, requiring me to stand up. This is not a problem. What is a problem is the bloke two seats to my left who insists on leaving, coming back, then pissing off again, which of course means he'll be returning about two minutes after the second half commences. Yes, there he is, 47th minute and he's back. In an ideal world, anybody turning up late for the game or not back in their seat by the beginning of the half would be prevented from taking their seat and preferably sent away with directions to the rugby ground, but this is clearly an unworkable rule and I am occasionally a realist.
In the second half, Aaron McLean finds a bit of space and smashed a shot towards David Martin's goal, but it hits the side netting. This last fact is quite obvious to everyone sitting in the stadium except, it seems, the visiting Peterborough contingent, who proceed to go mental for the next five seconds. Only when Martin places the ball for a goal kick does their excitement begin to die down.
[Usually I use these parantheses to moan about something - if you don't like it, may I invite you to fuck right off. But a word must be said about the Peterborough support at today's game. There's thousands of them, and they're noisy. That's real support, so take note fans of Stevenage and Southend. Make some noise, it's more fun that way.]
Twenty minutes from the end, Andy King heads in at the near post from a free kick on the right, and the game is over as a contest. More than a few Posh fans vacate their seats. The screeching has abated and it seems I'm almost enjoying a home game. The day is confirmed as a good one when Steve Howard fires in from outside the box for his first goal in thirteen games. I make my way home satisfied yet again, and looking forward to next Friday's visit to Leeds.
Final score: Leicester 4 Peterborough 0
Stupidest thing I've ever done
December 13th: Carlisle United v Leicester City (League One)
At 2137 GMT on December 12th, the most ludicrous journey of this, or probably any other, season begins. I'm leaving the house a full 17 hours 23 minutes before kick off. I needn't have fucking bothered though, as the first coach of this epic (absurd) journey is a full 82 minutes late for a scheduled 2250 departure. Consequently, I arrive in Birmingham with 45 minutes to find out where the hell the 2.35am bus to Glasgow departs from. Far too easy to go from the actual coach station you see, so it leaves from a good fifteen minute walk (in the rain) away. I find The Priory Queensway quite easily though, and shortly after I find the right stop another passenger strolls up. He's Hungarian, on his way to Dundee for reasons I don't care about. Knowledgeable football bloke though, so we chat about that, mostly of the Hungarian variety. Twelve years of World Soccer finally paying off - I can have a conversation with a random foreigner at a bus stop in the pissing rain at two in the morning. Two more passengers arrive, Brummies this time, only wearing Celtic shirts. On their way to watch the game against Hearts. I can think of things more tedious than a Scottish football match, but I wouldn't endure any of them voluntarily.
[One of these blokes describes himself as a 'Celtic and Villa fan'. No, sorry, not allowed. One fan, one brain, one heart, one team. You can't profess undying loyalty to two teams simultaneously. You wouldn't claim to be in love with two women would you? Actually some people would but they're twats. My point stands.]
On the bus I'm quickly asleep, despite it being freezing cold and very uncomfortable. I wake up at about 7.45, now dry but still tired, and it's timed very well - we're just outside Glasgow. I wander around for a while, and the first person to speak to me has a thick Glasgow accent. He's also completely arseholed. He comments (I think) on my Christmassy hat - purchased from the LCFC shop - and asks "can ah buy y' a pint?" Time check - it's 8.06am. No thanks, I need to find some food. "A'reet. Ah'm off fae a pint." Nice one. Good job you're not living up to a stereotype, eh mate? A couple of turns later and I'm back at the bus station, which makes me wonder if I'm in one of those paradox drawings. I can't possibly be back here, can I? Unless Noteeth McPisstains spun me round a few times. I don't remember.
[By the way, stop laughing at my route. You know the fucking score by now.]
I try the other direction, and with instructions from Ruth, who appears to be in her pyjamas, eventually I find a cafe behind the nearby police station. Suitably fed, I make my way back to the bus station for my connection to Carlisle, which leaves at 11. A trouble-free and quite pleasant run to Carlisle terminates almost exactly on time, and I take a moment to figure out which way I need to go. The only interaction I have with any home fans on the way to the ground is a bit of distant shouting, which is a bit disappointing. I was hoping for a proper conversation. Never mind, I'll just go and find my seat.
"Sit where you like". Brilliant. I take full advantage and decide on a seat about five away from the one I've been allocated. I notice something I, as a 26 year old fan, have never seen before - terracing on three sides of the ground. It appears to be a stadium full of anachronisms. While the stands tell us it's 1989, the electronic screen at the end to our right suggests we're at least in the late 90s. It's not top of the range, you understand, but it isn't bad. I wonder if they show goals on it.
As the game gets under way, it becomes clear that City have started slowly. The home side stay well on top but City are defending well enough to keep them out. On 27 minutes though, disaster in the City box - the entire defence goes to sleep and David Martin fails to deal with the ball, leaving Danny Graham to simply walk past him and finish from about half an inch. Other than Matty Fryatt hitting a post, there's no real response from City and the first half finishes 1-0. It could be more, and if Carlisle could attack it would be. I have a feeling that the scoring isn't over though.
At half time, Paul comes and fills the seat next to me. I've known Paul for about 3 years, and have seen him at various grounds all over the place. He's come on the official coach today. Rather him than me. It turns out that the screen does show goals, and I watch two reruns of Carlisle's opener. I still don't understand what happened.
The second half starts differently, and 15 minutes in Andy King cracks home another long range strike to equalise. The entire visiting end goes mental. I steal Paul's hat and grab anyone in arm's reach. Seven minutes later, Mark Davies (not Bruno Berner, as reported by Sky. Admittedly I thought it was Berner originally, but I'm not an international media outlet.) puts City in front and the lunacy in the away end is repeated. I steal Paul's hat again. My flag disappears for a few moments. I discover that I've been moved by charging City fans. It's my own fault for being in the nearest seat to the home supporters. Carlisle push for a leveller but it doesn't come and in the sixth minute of four added on the referee finally blows his whistle. Another three points, and we are still top of the league. Lovely stuff.
After the final whistle, the visiting fans are not held back by the local police as has been suggested, and I get back to the bus station unmolested after a couple of walk-and-talks with fellow Foxes. Safely back on the coach to Glasgow, I contemplate a three hour wait in the Scottish shithole, as my bus back to Birmingham doesn't leave until 11. A few minutes after stepping off the coach, I decide on a cinema visit. The next film to start is The Day The Earth Stood Still, which by the description given to me by the young lady after my money sounds like it might be good. Or shit. She neglects to mention that it's got Keanu Reeves in it. As it turns out, this role is perfect for Reeves. His character is unemotive and monotone. The film itself is utterly incomprehensible. Don't get me wrong, I understand the individual events, I just can't fathom why they're all in the same film.
I leave, £6.70 poorer and very hungry. A walk round the city centre in search of food turns up two possibilities within today's price range - McDonalds or Burger King (Jocky Wilson's already been at the bins). I consider not eating until tomorrow but I really am hungry. McDonalds it is then - the lesser of two evils.
Now back to the station. My bus is numbered M11, so I find the stand which clearly says M11. [For some reason, the word 'stand' is not used at Buchanan Bus Station. The word 'stance' is used instead, in what appears to be an archaic sense. Presumably it's just to be different. Regardless, I've used 'stand' here, so the English speakers among my readers can understand.] I wait. I speak to some Hearts fans having a night out after their draw with Celtic. I wait some more. It's now 11.30. I read the impossibly small print on the stand, and it tells me that some other departures for this service depart from a stand at the opposite end of the station, a good couple of minutes' walk away. I just felt my heart sink. It's gone, I know it is. Inexplicably, each departure time for the same service requires the passenger to stand at a completely different place in the station. If you don't know this, or don't expect this sort of confusing nonsense, tough shit. I attempt to call Traveline, and Megabus, but the former cannot help and the latter close at 10pm.
[Incidentally, if you are a company running a service 24 hours a day, what fucking use is a customer service line that closes at 10pm? They're as bad as these phone companies whose lines close at 8 o'clock on the dot. Not only are you fucked if the phone you need to be on at all times in case of emergencies goes off at half past eight, but they will put the phone down on you if you have the indecency to call at 7.59. Especially fucking TalkTalk. Arseholes.]
Time to find some way of killing the next 9 hours. Bollocks to staying out among all these pissed up porridge eaters though, I'm off to find somewhere warm. So it is then that I find myself back at the police station from this morning. Mercifully, it's quiet, so I speak to the first officer I find and let him know the situation. He suggests the hard wooden seating. Not ideal but at least it's warm. At about 2am, a young woman is brought in by two officers, limping heavily. That's what happens when you wear high heels to go on the piss. Her name is Fiona or something. She's annoying. She keeps moaning about her ankle, and after a while she starts moaning about the fact that her taxi hasn't turned up. This type of whingeing is to be a recurring theme throughout the next hour and a half. Taxi, ankle, taxi, ankle, iPod missing, phone missing, taxi, ankle, iPod, phone... Christ on a bike. The rest of the night I alternate between sleeping in an empty room and interacting with the procession of arseholes who pass through. Most of them have got fines or court dates for various acts of twattery. At about 3.30, one bloke comes in complaining of being mugged. He has a phone conversation with his mate, to whom he complains "Ah'm still in Glesga ya pr'ck!" That's funny. No it isn't.
At about 5am, four people arrive in search of their friend, who was apparently apprehended earlier tonight for being shitfaced. Two of them go immediately to sleep on each other, the other two remain awake. Laura more so than her friend, whose name I never learn, probably because he neglects to offer it. She has three studs on her tongue and various other punctures around her face. I'm not interested in them in the least, but I ask about the piercings anyway. As I talk to her, it becomes obvious very soon that I could take the piss out of her without her knowing, so I do. She repeatedly refers to everyone who walks past as her 'bezzy', whatever the fuck that means.
[If it's not clear by now, let me spell it out: I have never, not once, ever, met anyone whose company I enjoy whilst they're inebriated. Not you, not your best mate who's just fucking hilarious when he's pissed, not your uncle who starts touching your mate's tits when he's had a few, not even that girl who gets naked when you buy her a Bacardi Breezer. And if you think you can convince me otherwise, you're a cunt.]
At 8.30, I leave the police station, relieved to be getting away from this fuckwit. I discover that the only way I'm getting back to Leicester now is by forking out for another ticket. Fifty-five quid later I'm booked on the 11am coach. Plenty of time to sleep on the way. Just before it leaves, I'm pleased to receive a message from Ellen, the woman I met in Oxford on my way to the Swindon game. This actually makes me smile. A terrible day becomes an almost bearable one.
At 2122 GMT on December 14th, the most ludicrous journey of this, or probably any other, season ends. 47 hours 45 minutes. Jesus wept.
Final score: Carlisle 1 Leicester 2
Ticket: £18
Coach: £103.40
Total: £121.40
At 2137 GMT on December 12th, the most ludicrous journey of this, or probably any other, season begins. I'm leaving the house a full 17 hours 23 minutes before kick off. I needn't have fucking bothered though, as the first coach of this epic (absurd) journey is a full 82 minutes late for a scheduled 2250 departure. Consequently, I arrive in Birmingham with 45 minutes to find out where the hell the 2.35am bus to Glasgow departs from. Far too easy to go from the actual coach station you see, so it leaves from a good fifteen minute walk (in the rain) away. I find The Priory Queensway quite easily though, and shortly after I find the right stop another passenger strolls up. He's Hungarian, on his way to Dundee for reasons I don't care about. Knowledgeable football bloke though, so we chat about that, mostly of the Hungarian variety. Twelve years of World Soccer finally paying off - I can have a conversation with a random foreigner at a bus stop in the pissing rain at two in the morning. Two more passengers arrive, Brummies this time, only wearing Celtic shirts. On their way to watch the game against Hearts. I can think of things more tedious than a Scottish football match, but I wouldn't endure any of them voluntarily.
[One of these blokes describes himself as a 'Celtic and Villa fan'. No, sorry, not allowed. One fan, one brain, one heart, one team. You can't profess undying loyalty to two teams simultaneously. You wouldn't claim to be in love with two women would you? Actually some people would but they're twats. My point stands.]
On the bus I'm quickly asleep, despite it being freezing cold and very uncomfortable. I wake up at about 7.45, now dry but still tired, and it's timed very well - we're just outside Glasgow. I wander around for a while, and the first person to speak to me has a thick Glasgow accent. He's also completely arseholed. He comments (I think) on my Christmassy hat - purchased from the LCFC shop - and asks "can ah buy y' a pint?" Time check - it's 8.06am. No thanks, I need to find some food. "A'reet. Ah'm off fae a pint." Nice one. Good job you're not living up to a stereotype, eh mate? A couple of turns later and I'm back at the bus station, which makes me wonder if I'm in one of those paradox drawings. I can't possibly be back here, can I? Unless Noteeth McPisstains spun me round a few times. I don't remember.
[By the way, stop laughing at my route. You know the fucking score by now.]
I try the other direction, and with instructions from Ruth, who appears to be in her pyjamas, eventually I find a cafe behind the nearby police station. Suitably fed, I make my way back to the bus station for my connection to Carlisle, which leaves at 11. A trouble-free and quite pleasant run to Carlisle terminates almost exactly on time, and I take a moment to figure out which way I need to go. The only interaction I have with any home fans on the way to the ground is a bit of distant shouting, which is a bit disappointing. I was hoping for a proper conversation. Never mind, I'll just go and find my seat.
"Sit where you like". Brilliant. I take full advantage and decide on a seat about five away from the one I've been allocated. I notice something I, as a 26 year old fan, have never seen before - terracing on three sides of the ground. It appears to be a stadium full of anachronisms. While the stands tell us it's 1989, the electronic screen at the end to our right suggests we're at least in the late 90s. It's not top of the range, you understand, but it isn't bad. I wonder if they show goals on it.
As the game gets under way, it becomes clear that City have started slowly. The home side stay well on top but City are defending well enough to keep them out. On 27 minutes though, disaster in the City box - the entire defence goes to sleep and David Martin fails to deal with the ball, leaving Danny Graham to simply walk past him and finish from about half an inch. Other than Matty Fryatt hitting a post, there's no real response from City and the first half finishes 1-0. It could be more, and if Carlisle could attack it would be. I have a feeling that the scoring isn't over though.
At half time, Paul comes and fills the seat next to me. I've known Paul for about 3 years, and have seen him at various grounds all over the place. He's come on the official coach today. Rather him than me. It turns out that the screen does show goals, and I watch two reruns of Carlisle's opener. I still don't understand what happened.
The second half starts differently, and 15 minutes in Andy King cracks home another long range strike to equalise. The entire visiting end goes mental. I steal Paul's hat and grab anyone in arm's reach. Seven minutes later, Mark Davies (not Bruno Berner, as reported by Sky. Admittedly I thought it was Berner originally, but I'm not an international media outlet.) puts City in front and the lunacy in the away end is repeated. I steal Paul's hat again. My flag disappears for a few moments. I discover that I've been moved by charging City fans. It's my own fault for being in the nearest seat to the home supporters. Carlisle push for a leveller but it doesn't come and in the sixth minute of four added on the referee finally blows his whistle. Another three points, and we are still top of the league. Lovely stuff.
After the final whistle, the visiting fans are not held back by the local police as has been suggested, and I get back to the bus station unmolested after a couple of walk-and-talks with fellow Foxes. Safely back on the coach to Glasgow, I contemplate a three hour wait in the Scottish shithole, as my bus back to Birmingham doesn't leave until 11. A few minutes after stepping off the coach, I decide on a cinema visit. The next film to start is The Day The Earth Stood Still, which by the description given to me by the young lady after my money sounds like it might be good. Or shit. She neglects to mention that it's got Keanu Reeves in it. As it turns out, this role is perfect for Reeves. His character is unemotive and monotone. The film itself is utterly incomprehensible. Don't get me wrong, I understand the individual events, I just can't fathom why they're all in the same film.
I leave, £6.70 poorer and very hungry. A walk round the city centre in search of food turns up two possibilities within today's price range - McDonalds or Burger King (Jocky Wilson's already been at the bins). I consider not eating until tomorrow but I really am hungry. McDonalds it is then - the lesser of two evils.
Now back to the station. My bus is numbered M11, so I find the stand which clearly says M11. [For some reason, the word 'stand' is not used at Buchanan Bus Station. The word 'stance' is used instead, in what appears to be an archaic sense. Presumably it's just to be different. Regardless, I've used 'stand' here, so the English speakers among my readers can understand.] I wait. I speak to some Hearts fans having a night out after their draw with Celtic. I wait some more. It's now 11.30. I read the impossibly small print on the stand, and it tells me that some other departures for this service depart from a stand at the opposite end of the station, a good couple of minutes' walk away. I just felt my heart sink. It's gone, I know it is. Inexplicably, each departure time for the same service requires the passenger to stand at a completely different place in the station. If you don't know this, or don't expect this sort of confusing nonsense, tough shit. I attempt to call Traveline, and Megabus, but the former cannot help and the latter close at 10pm.
[Incidentally, if you are a company running a service 24 hours a day, what fucking use is a customer service line that closes at 10pm? They're as bad as these phone companies whose lines close at 8 o'clock on the dot. Not only are you fucked if the phone you need to be on at all times in case of emergencies goes off at half past eight, but they will put the phone down on you if you have the indecency to call at 7.59. Especially fucking TalkTalk. Arseholes.]
Time to find some way of killing the next 9 hours. Bollocks to staying out among all these pissed up porridge eaters though, I'm off to find somewhere warm. So it is then that I find myself back at the police station from this morning. Mercifully, it's quiet, so I speak to the first officer I find and let him know the situation. He suggests the hard wooden seating. Not ideal but at least it's warm. At about 2am, a young woman is brought in by two officers, limping heavily. That's what happens when you wear high heels to go on the piss. Her name is Fiona or something. She's annoying. She keeps moaning about her ankle, and after a while she starts moaning about the fact that her taxi hasn't turned up. This type of whingeing is to be a recurring theme throughout the next hour and a half. Taxi, ankle, taxi, ankle, iPod missing, phone missing, taxi, ankle, iPod, phone... Christ on a bike. The rest of the night I alternate between sleeping in an empty room and interacting with the procession of arseholes who pass through. Most of them have got fines or court dates for various acts of twattery. At about 3.30, one bloke comes in complaining of being mugged. He has a phone conversation with his mate, to whom he complains "Ah'm still in Glesga ya pr'ck!" That's funny. No it isn't.
At about 5am, four people arrive in search of their friend, who was apparently apprehended earlier tonight for being shitfaced. Two of them go immediately to sleep on each other, the other two remain awake. Laura more so than her friend, whose name I never learn, probably because he neglects to offer it. She has three studs on her tongue and various other punctures around her face. I'm not interested in them in the least, but I ask about the piercings anyway. As I talk to her, it becomes obvious very soon that I could take the piss out of her without her knowing, so I do. She repeatedly refers to everyone who walks past as her 'bezzy', whatever the fuck that means.
[If it's not clear by now, let me spell it out: I have never, not once, ever, met anyone whose company I enjoy whilst they're inebriated. Not you, not your best mate who's just fucking hilarious when he's pissed, not your uncle who starts touching your mate's tits when he's had a few, not even that girl who gets naked when you buy her a Bacardi Breezer. And if you think you can convince me otherwise, you're a cunt.]
At 8.30, I leave the police station, relieved to be getting away from this fuckwit. I discover that the only way I'm getting back to Leicester now is by forking out for another ticket. Fifty-five quid later I'm booked on the 11am coach. Plenty of time to sleep on the way. Just before it leaves, I'm pleased to receive a message from Ellen, the woman I met in Oxford on my way to the Swindon game. This actually makes me smile. A terrible day becomes an almost bearable one.
At 2122 GMT on December 14th, the most ludicrous journey of this, or probably any other, season ends. 47 hours 45 minutes. Jesus wept.
Final score: Carlisle 1 Leicester 2
Ticket: £18
Coach: £103.40
Total: £121.40
Two in a row
December 6th: Leicester City v Southend United (League One)
Before the game my wallet gets £27 lighter with the pre-order of a ticket for the trip to Leeds on Boxing Day. Knowing that I'd need to make a trip to the ticket office I've made sure I arrive early so I end up sitting in my seat for an hour before kick off, talking to the bloke behind me who always gets there earlier than everyone else. I'm almost certain he arrives the previous night to soak in the atmosphere. Fortunately though, today's game will be kicking off at 2.30 owing to a fixture clash with some egg-chasing twats down the road.
Before kick off, I notice that Kerrea Gilbert has been given a starting slot for the first time since October 21st. Kerrea's been out with injury. He's also had a minor run-in with the law, and is apparently the defendant in a trial starting at Leicester Crown Court on January 23rd. He is one of three changes to the back four.
At the six minute mark, last week's hat trick hero Matty Fryatt picks up where he left off, cutting in from the right and executing a perfect left footed finish past Steve Mildenhall. City have come out with intent and that's clear to see from the start. The attacks continue but, alas, the referee is equally intent on blowing his whistle for no discernable reason as often as possible, which serves to kill the flow of the game. It's not long before the squealing harpy two rows back starts squealing like a squealing harpy. Shortly afterwards, her much older male friend joins in. Their insults still almost always end in 'twat'.
Southend somehow survive the first half without conceding further, and at half time I sit bored without even any half time scores to listen to as everyone else kicked off half an hour later. Some small entertainment, however, as the Birch struggles with a microphone while trying to interview City legend (and now, unfortunately, Parkinson's sufferer) Chris Garland on the pitch. Fun story: Garland joined City in 1974 from Chelsea, scoring a hatful of goals which kept City up at the expense of his former club.
The second half carries on the theme of the first, City still well on top and Southend looking like they shouldn't have bothered turning up. On 76, Fryatt slots a second in front of the Kop and three minutes later makes it two hat tricks in a row from the penalty spot after a handball from Peter Clarke. I'm usually more reserved when it comes to celebrating goals at the Walkers - for some reason home games aren't as much fun - but in celebration of this achievement I decide (probably the wrong word really) to grab the bloke to my left and shout in his face.
This has been the easiest home game this season, because Southend didn't turn up. They just weren't very good at all. Additionally, the day hasn't been particularly entertaining because of the complete lack of lunatics other than me. Next week will be more fun though, I assure you.
Final score: Leicester 3 Southend 0
Before the game my wallet gets £27 lighter with the pre-order of a ticket for the trip to Leeds on Boxing Day. Knowing that I'd need to make a trip to the ticket office I've made sure I arrive early so I end up sitting in my seat for an hour before kick off, talking to the bloke behind me who always gets there earlier than everyone else. I'm almost certain he arrives the previous night to soak in the atmosphere. Fortunately though, today's game will be kicking off at 2.30 owing to a fixture clash with some egg-chasing twats down the road.
Before kick off, I notice that Kerrea Gilbert has been given a starting slot for the first time since October 21st. Kerrea's been out with injury. He's also had a minor run-in with the law, and is apparently the defendant in a trial starting at Leicester Crown Court on January 23rd. He is one of three changes to the back four.
At the six minute mark, last week's hat trick hero Matty Fryatt picks up where he left off, cutting in from the right and executing a perfect left footed finish past Steve Mildenhall. City have come out with intent and that's clear to see from the start. The attacks continue but, alas, the referee is equally intent on blowing his whistle for no discernable reason as often as possible, which serves to kill the flow of the game. It's not long before the squealing harpy two rows back starts squealing like a squealing harpy. Shortly afterwards, her much older male friend joins in. Their insults still almost always end in 'twat'.
Southend somehow survive the first half without conceding further, and at half time I sit bored without even any half time scores to listen to as everyone else kicked off half an hour later. Some small entertainment, however, as the Birch struggles with a microphone while trying to interview City legend (and now, unfortunately, Parkinson's sufferer) Chris Garland on the pitch. Fun story: Garland joined City in 1974 from Chelsea, scoring a hatful of goals which kept City up at the expense of his former club.
The second half carries on the theme of the first, City still well on top and Southend looking like they shouldn't have bothered turning up. On 76, Fryatt slots a second in front of the Kop and three minutes later makes it two hat tricks in a row from the penalty spot after a handball from Peter Clarke. I'm usually more reserved when it comes to celebrating goals at the Walkers - for some reason home games aren't as much fun - but in celebration of this achievement I decide (probably the wrong word really) to grab the bloke to my left and shout in his face.
This has been the easiest home game this season, because Southend didn't turn up. They just weren't very good at all. Additionally, the day hasn't been particularly entertaining because of the complete lack of lunatics other than me. Next week will be more fun though, I assure you.
Final score: Leicester 3 Southend 0
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