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
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