Where the fuck's the shop?

August 12th: Macclesfield Town v Leicester City (Carling Cup first round)

I was on the internet last night, working out my trip. This, for me, is leaving it late. I've usually got these things planned out several weeks in advance. Nonetheless, I think I've got a pretty good result out of it.

The first bus of the day arrives at 10.30, well in time to catch the 11.15 coach to Derby. The driver, however, is under the impression that nobody on the bus has anywhere to go, and crawls as slowly as possible all the way into the city centre. To kill the time, I talk to the orange-faced girl to my left. She's friendly enough, but I can't look directly at her and maintain a straight face because she's the colour of an oompah-loompah.

Despite the best efforts of that driver, I arrive at the bus station four minutes before the coach is due to leave. Just in time to see a young man in a black knee-length pleated skirt board the same coach. Nice...

Shortly after 12, it's time to alight at Derby, and I head straight into tourist information and speak to Collette. She gives me details about the buses between here and Macclesfield, and ribs me for wearing a Leicester shirt.

[I knew I'd have to change in our near Ashbourne, but here's the problem I have: the website I looked on last night disagrees with the timetable I printed off, and both disagree with the website Collette looks at. Of course.]

As I have two hours to kill, I wander around Derby city centre for a bit. I notice people queueing out of the door of Greggs, which is inexplicable given the standard of food they serve. I walk a bit further and somehow get involved in a conversation with another Leicester fan and his much younger female companion, who is a Derby fan. I have no idea what the nature of their relationship is, but I'm really not that interested. He, a man easily in his fifties, is drinking some fizzy (non-alcoholic) drink out of a can and talking towards me in a gravelly voice and a Leicester accent. She, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, has eleven teeth. They're clearly not educated people. At one point, he burps and makes no effort to cover his mouth. Shortly afterwards I terminate the discussion and head to Tesco, but not before hearing about some Forest fans getting "fookin' battered". This, friends, is the thing about wearing football shirts in other towns - you're always singled out by the dickheads for conversations you don't want to have.

I find a cafe in a side street and order a breakfast, even though it's nearly 2pm. It's not that I'm in a particularly breakfasty mood, it's just that everything else on the menu looks a bit shite. I sit down and take FourFourTwo out of my bag. While reading, I find that the magazine has discovered a new meaning for the word 'unique', and have used it in the following sentence:

"There are also new shirt sponsors at Bristol Rovers following a unique raffle where firms were invited, at £1,000 a pop, to enter."

This could be confusing for anyone who uses the traditional definition of 'unique' and is aware that King's Lynn did exactly the same thing this season. I know they did, because I was there when they made the draw.

After a greasy breakfast I would describe simply as edible, I find the bus stop from which the next section of my journey departs. The bus to Ashbourne is The One apparently. Not the number 1 bus, but The One. After a more or less direct ride to Ashbourne (and quick trip to some of the most evil-smelling toilets in the whole of Derbyshire), I have another little wander to kill the 20 minutes before the 108 to Macclesfield. As I return to the bus station, a man stumbles into my vicinity asks me where the tourist information place is. I look up at the nearby sign pointing to something called 'Tourist Information' and, feeling in a helpful mood, I explain politely that I'm not a local and as such cannot help. He continues talking, but not to me. As he walks off towards the town centre, he's thoroughly engrossed in a somewhat involved conversation with himself.

I wait until 3.25, the stated departure time for the 108 to Macclesfield, and talk to an old couple. A bus approaches, and the woman says enthusiastically "this is your bus here, this one look". I wonder for a moment why the 108 to Macclesfield would have '442 Ashbourne' on the front, before she changes her mind: "Oh it's not is it, no. That's not it." Oh, is it not? Thanks.

Ten minutes later the real 108 turns up (cleverly disguised as the 108 to Macclesfield), and I settle into a seat at the back. Very soon the bus is out of the town and into the countryside. As the route snakes through the narrow roads I look up from the magazine I'm reading and just stare. The scenery is unbelievable. There are few places in this country more satisfying to travel through than this part of Derbyshire. Looking out of the bus in any direction I feel I can see for miles, and it's stunning. For the thirty-seventh time this season already, I am reminded that I still haven't bought a camera, and quietly mumble a short series of swearwords to myself.

As the bus enters Leek town centre, I receive a text message:

"Shevchenko to Leicester, season long loan."

Yes, of course.

At 4.45, the bus passes Moss Rose and I get off at the next stop. I wander back towards the ground and try to figure out (also spelled: guess) what's where. I walk up the side of the Silk FM Main Stand (on the east side of the ground) and just find an unmanned open door for players and officials and so on, so I walk back to where I started. As I stroll along, looking at the paint peeling off the main stand, I spot two men getting out of a car. Instantly I recognise them as Radio Leicester's Ian Stringer and John Sinclair. Stringer surprises me by initiating conversation, so I ask him where he thinks the club shop is. Within a few moments the three of us have walked back along the main stand, down an alleyway and are suddenly among the seats. I don't think it's here. As a trio, we walk round to the opposite stand, chatting away, but eventually part ways as they disappear into a door I didn't even see until they were gone.

Back and forth I go, looking for something resembling a club shop, but to no avail. I walk back to the main road and decide to phone the club, and discover that the shop won't be open until 6pm (another hour then) and tickets won't be sold until the turnstiles are actually open.

So I walk into the town centre. Someone on the bus told me it was a five minute walk, and this was inaccurate. Twenty minutes later, I reach the centre, before I decide there's fuck all to do there anyway, and walk back. Killed some time so I'm not complaining. Halfway back up to the ground, a Macclesfield fan attaches himself to me and we have a very enjoyable conversation about football away trips. Another Town fan passes us in the other direction, at which point my new friend looks back and then at me. He indicates the other fan with a nod: "you see that bloke who just went past?"
I look back. "Yeah, you know him?"
"Oh yeah. He went to over 1,200 games in a row. He only missed one because his wife had a baby. He's still only missed two now."
I look back again. I do some rough calculations - that's about 24 seasons of watching Macclesfield Town. Without missing a single game. Not one. I shake my head, and go looking for the club shop again.

Eventually, I discover that to access the club shop you need to press a buzzer next to an unmarked door, walk up some stairs, open another unmarked door (at this point it very much feels like you're breaking into the club) and guess which of the many new unmarked doors to go through. I look at the choices and imagine a surreal little gameshow in my head:

"Behind one of these doors, you can buy Macclesfield Town-branded tat. Behind another, a confidential board meeting. Behind another, a girl on work experience getting worked over by one of the coaching staff..."

I go left. Wrong. As the office girl pulls her knickers back up... Not really. But left was wrong. I should've gone right. Finally, the club shop. Sort of. I see shirts, and footballs, and... that's it. No badges, no mugs. Nowt. I speak to the woman in there and she pulls aside a passing colleague, who leads me out of the 'shop' and into an office, where she pulls a plastic bag out from under her desk and rummages through it. After a minute or so, she pulls out two badges. Result.

Outside, I walk back round to the away end terrace and just wait. I talk to people I recognise, and some I don't, and just wait. At 6.15, a small group of people start looking at their watches, apparently having been told the gates would be open by now. Fifteen minutes later, more people have arrived and more are annoyed that the gates aren't open yet. At 6.45 (the time I was given) the gates are still shut as Paul and Helen arrive. They finally open at just after 7pm, 45 minutes after some people said they'd be open. Despite this, nobody makes even the slightest move for the entrance, so I'm the first one in. My companions for the evening purchase hot dogs and we walk up the steps and onto the terrace. Paul pulls his out of the bag and tries, inexplicably, to hold it between his fingers while opening a sachet of ketchup. Predictably, it ends up at his feet. Twat.

The first half of the game is entertaining, with City creating a few chances at the far end. Helen and I entertain ourselves with random chatter, but mostly we concentrate on the game. The first half comes to an end at 0-0. And it's still not raining.

In the 58th minute, Dany N'Guessan backheels his second competitive goal for the club; finally the home side have caved. Perhaps the goalkeeper's been distracted - someone's brought toilet paper and is throwing it into the goalmouth. 20 minutes from the end, Matty Fryatt smashes a left-foot shot into the roof of the goal, dissolving any possibility of extra time. In the final minutes City have a few chances to put a gloss on the scoreline, but 2-0 is job done.

Outside the ground I mean Alan, who has generously agreed to give me a lift back home. Otherwise I would have had a convoluted (and very, very long) trip. And you all know how much I hate those...

In the first half hour after we set off, I learn two pieces of upsetting news. Firstly, Alan tells me that a mutual friend, Andy, is no longer coming to games. This wouldn't be such a big deal, but for the fact that I can't remember the last game I went to where I didn't see Andy. Tonight is the first time in a while. This saddens me. The second piece of news is the draw for the second round. Preston away on a fucking weeknight? Fucking Football League.

[Still, it could be worse. Look at some of the other fixtures:
Bristol City v Carlisle
Gillingham v Blackburn
Swansea v Scunthorpe
Hull v Southend
All to be played midweek.]

After a two-hour drive back in the dark, Alan drops me off more or less at my front door. I get inside at a quarter to midnight and have a little time to contemplate a long season of trips like this. I can't fucking wait.

Final score: Macclesfield 0 Leicester 2
Time: 13 hours 15 minutes
Ticket: £12
Coach to Derby: £2
Bus total: £6.10
Total: £20.10