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
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