August 15th: Ipswich Town v Leicester City (Championship)
It's not big, it's not clever, and it's not funny. It's 4.36am and I've just left the house to catch a 5.50 coach to London. Why London to go to Ipswich? Because it's cheaper, that's why. Pay attention.
I must be getting better at this walking lark, I manage the trip to the coach station in 63 minutes. As I turn the final corner to the coach station, a poster near the door to a nearby club catches my attention. Now I'm super-excited, because this poster tells me that Danny Dyer (yes, THE Danny Dyer) is doing a DJ set at Liquid in Leicester on August 30th.
I walk up towards the bus station and notice someone putting the magazine and paper stands out. Time to pick up a newspaper then. Well, the Daily Star for the football crossword I never finish (there's always a fucking Rochdale or Grimsby player from the 50s or something that I don't get). As I look for it, I notice that the Sun's headline is GEORGE MICHAEL SHUNTS TRUCKER IN REAR, which makes me laugh. This does not refer to an obscene act in a public toilet this time. It seems he's had a car accident. The first thought of the Sun's headline writer was, naturally, tasteless innuendo. Good.
[Speaking of George Michael, wasn't Last Christmas shit? I mean, all his songs were shit, (Careless Whisper, do you remember that? What a load of wank) but Last Christmas especially so. For a start, 'gev' isn't a word. Also, what the fuck is he on about? How did the recipient of his heart go about giving it away? Anyway, enough about that lying, cottaging, junkie twat.]
I turn around to find a girl dressed in a very bright pink top. She's astoundingly chirpy for 5.45am, as if being up and out at this time was the most natural thing in the world. Shortly I make my way onto the bus and find that somehow she's already sitting on it. No idea how that happened. I take a seat nearby, but something's not right. I don't put my finger on it until I notice I'm sliding forwards. I stand up just in time to see the seat drop to the floor. It's too early in the morning for this shit. I move to the seat opposite, which is directly in front of the girl in pink (who smiles and says hello again) and discover that the armrest is broken. I've no intention of falling into the aisle every time the bus turns right, so I move to the window seat. No footrest. It's going to be a long journey.
Even longer when a load of Czech teenagers get on at Milton Keynes and start to talk loudly. That doesn't last long though, so the next two hours I manage to sleep in severe discomfort. Despite the rest, I'm most displeased. I get off the coach and sit down in the usual place for breakfast, at one point looking round to see the girl in pink behind me. She smiles and waves.
Entering Victoria railway station after breakfast, I notice a large number of a thing you never used to see before about 2003: Chelsea shirts.
[That date has no particular significance. Here is a list of things I am not implying by it:
1. Chelsea didn't have as many fans before a certain Russian criminal (sorry, 'oligarch') bought the Premiership for them.
2. That it's at all suspicious that so many of their fans need to travel by rail to go to a home match.
3. A lot of their current fans had never seen a Chelsea match before they suddenly started buying dozens of world-class players and probably couldn't tell you who Ron Harris or John Neal or Dmitri Kharine or Paul Canoville or Kerry Dixon or Ray Wilkins or Peter Osgood or Pat Nevin or Joey Jones or David Speedie or Ted Drake or Paul Elliott or Eddie Niedzwiecki or Terry Venables or Erland Johnsen or Clive Allen or Peter Bonetti or Clive Walker or Micky Droy or John Hollins or Dave Sexton or John Spencer or Gavin Peacock or Frank Sinclair or Eddie Newton or Dave Beasant or Kevin Hitchcock or Gordon Durie or Tony Dorigo or Nigel Spackman or John Bumstead or Bobby Campbell or Gary Locke or Colin Lee or George Graham are.
I'm definitely not implying that last one. I'm fucking saying it.]
I go for a walk through the surrounding streets, and at one point a French family approach and I find myself being asked "Excuse me, you are English?"
"Yes, but not from London," I reply, knowing what's coming.
Despite this, the man doing the talking continues: "Do you know which way is Buckingham Palace?"
Well, if it weren't for that sign right above your head...
After some more wandering about (and several more oddly coincidental meetings with the girl in pink, who on each occasion smiles and waves), and asking two people presumably employed by TfL whether my ticket included the required tube ride to Liverpool Street (neither had a clue; one thought possibly, the other leaned more towards probably not but chose not to commit. In the event, the answer was no), I buy a Travelcard and make my way down to the eastbound platform for the Circle Line. At this time of day, each train is so crowded that every minute on one feels like 25 years. If you haven't gathered from previous posts, I hate travelling by tube. Especially when there's some weirdo in a mask standing a few feet away.
I sit down for a bit at Liverpool Street and watch as people go past. I note several football shirts going past, mostly fucking Chelsea again, but also a West Ham shirt, a few Torquay, and three Ipswich. At 12.45, I stroll over to platform 9 to board the 1300 train. By chance, I sit down opposite one of the Ipswich shirts I saw earlier. This, as it happens, makes the journey go a lot quicker because the Town fan inside it knows football. Mostly Ipswich, but it's still good to have a conversation.
From a distance, Portman Road looks a relatively impressive venue. I think I might be looking at it from the perspective of a fan who's been to too many Division Three grounds. Up close, it's not too shabby either, from the outside.
[Comparing Portman Road to the last ground I visited - Moss Rose, Macclesfield, if you're too lazy to look back - the club shop is easily located and is filled with overpriced tat with the Ipswich Town logo on it as opposed to a rack of shirts in a hidden room, the main stand doesn't look like it could fall down at any second, and the away turnstiles don't have "John = Pedo" sprayed on in red paint.]
At 2.25, I'm inside the club shop and have quickly located an acceptable mug for my collection. With tangible dismay, I notice the queue is about eleven miles long. Nonetheless, I decide to sit it out and position myself at the back of the long line. A few minutes (and a pleasingly large number of feet) later, I see a woman of about 119 attempt to barge into the queue about two places ahead. Realising that she's going to be caught out, she retreats, only to try the same thing a couple of spaces behind me. This time, success. She's pushed in to the tune of about eight places with none of the people behind noticing a thing. Old fuckers get away with everything.
Eventually I get to the till and after paying for my mug and a badge, the thoroughly pleasant girl serving asks if I have a season ticket and fixture list. I leave it to her colleague to point out that I probably won't need either.
Outside again, I have a look at the mass of tributes left for the late Sir Bobby Robson. All along the railings are flags and shirts from different clubs' fans bearing a variety of messages. Always a sad sight but good to see at the same time.
Having timed the day so tightly (by my standards) it's time to get inside. As soon as I'm past the turnstile, it becomes clear that this ground's interior isn't nearly as impressive as it is exterior. I climb the stairs and despite the signs I manage to find my way up to my seat, where I find precisely no leg room. In what seems like a flash, the players are out and... we're doing another minute's applause for Sir Bobby.
[Now, I don't want to come across as tactless, because there's no doubt whatsoever that he was a great man as well as a great football man. But can we leave the poor bastard alone now? That's the third time I've been asked to do a minute's applause for the same man. At this rate I estimate that by the end of the season people will have clapped for a total of forty-five billion years in his memory. Just stop it. It's getting to the point where it's bordering on taking the piss.]
Early in the game, other than Wayne Brown heading over against his first club, the only incident of note is a clearly drunk bloke getting escorted out with his kid. There you go mate, you've fucked up your son's day by getting pissed up. Hope you're proud of yourself.
In the first half, City have the better chances but take none of them. Brown and debutant Robbie Neilson make a mistake apiece, but neither is punished. Five times I have to stand up to let people past so they can go to the (apparently awful) toilets. Have they all been on the piss? Half time comes and it's 0-0. And the home fans haven't made a sound.
At half time, the stadium announcer mumbles some scores (at one point claiming Exeter are beating Norwich, which they aren't) and that's about it.
On 53 minutes, City's Richie Wellens is shown a card which is clearly red. Everyone around me thinks the same thing, including the police officer standing to our left, but nobody else in the ground bats an eyelid. The game carried on as if the card had been yellow. Amazing.
The second half is much like the first, only perhaps more one-sided in City's favour, but still no breakthrough comes. The game ends goalless. And the home fans still haven't made a sound.
Back at the station, there's a face I recognise. It's the pissed-up bloke who got chucked out after 15 minutes, and following him around is his kid. He's now shitfaced, having spent most of the game in the pub. Upon seeing some police, he tries to blame them and the stewards for his own cuntish actions which resulted in his son going home having seen quarter of an hour of football. Twat.
As I sit waiting for the 1811 train back to Liverpool Street, another oddball sits down in the seat to my right and starts talking in my direction. I nod a couple of times, offer him a 'yeah', and wait for him to drift away. Which, to his credit, he does. Bizarre man though.
On the train back, I get involved in a conversation with a couple of Ipswich fans from Ireland (?) and their companion, a QPR fan. There is a connection, but it's too much to go into. They're nice enough people anyway, and Jim (the older Ipswich fan) explains how he became a fan of the club back in the 70s.
Again, the journey goes quickly and soon I find myself talking to Carl on the tube. He's a Colchester fan (who lives in Sussex) and is understandably delighted that they've kicked off with two wins. He's almost as happy about Matt Heath (who he describes as "fucking terrible") being on loan at Southend. It turns out we just got off the same train and are both getting off at the same stop, so all the way back to Victoria we talk about today's games and various other football-related things. The subject of travel times inevitably comes up, so I have to tell him about some of the things I've done... Before we separate, he calls me "fuckin' mad" for my journeys. A compliment, I feel, from someone who travels three hours to get to home games.
At 8.45, the 440 starts to board. I find myself a seat about halfway back and settle in. For a few minutes I look around me. I notice the couple opposite are eating something that smells very good, especially to someone who's only had a couple of chicken sandwiches all day. Ten minutes later, the coach is almost full when a woman gets on and selects the seat next to me. She sits down, then decides her briefcase needs to go in the overhead luggage rack. She sits again. Then, obviously uncomfortable, she gets up and removes the rucksack on her back before sitting down a third time. She stands again, and rearranges her things before moving forward and sitting in the seat in front. I look across at the man opposite, who grins at me, leans over and says "Strange innit?" This cracks me up.
For the first hour of the journey, I talk to Simon and find out a few things. He's Ghanaian, he lives in Leicester, and the food he and his other half were eating was fish and rice. That sounds good, and now I'm twice as hungry as before. This is the first non-football conversation I've had today, but easily one of the best.
The next thing I know, it's 11.25 and the coach is pulling into St Margaret's station. As we all alight, I shake my new friend's hand and start my walk. I'm tired and very hungry. Home feels a long way away. Had a good day though. Roll on Tuesday night.
Final score: Ipswich 0 Leicester 0
Time: 19 hours 28 minutes
Ticket: £31 (thieving cunts)
Coach: £19
Train: £26
Travelcard: £5.60
Total: £81.60
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