November 28th: Scunthorpe United v Leicester City (Championship)
It's getting to that time of year again: when everywhere you go is freezing; when you can see your breath; when two pairs of socks still isn't enough to prevent your toes becoming oddly-shaped ice cubes.
So it is this morning that I woke up and just did not want to get out of bed. But today, there are things to do. Today is our first away game in 29 days, and my route was worked out weeks ago. Leaving the house at 8.20, I take the bus into the city centre and walk from Pocklington's Walk down to - sit down for this - catch a train. Yes, boys and girls, the cheapest way I could find to get to Scunthorpe within a reasonable time frame involves catching no fewer than four trains. That's about two more than I'd prefer to catch in a single season, but it's entirely necessary.
The first - to Peterborough - is due to leave at 9.15, so when I arrive at just before 9am, there's plenty of time to get my ticket printed and freeze my extremities off while standing on the platform for ten minutes. Soon, the Stansted train appears.
The seat I pick is far enough away from other passengers that I can read in peace. Until Melton Mowbray, that is, when a man gets on with two young sons and sits directly opposite me. Not a problem in itself, until I realise they're going to spend their entire journey to Stamford sneezing in my general direction. As they get off, a woman and her daughter get on. They're going shopping in Peterborough. Rebecca, the daughter, has to do some Christmas shopping. One of the things she has to buy is a Secret Santa gift for someone in her class. Spending limit is a quid. How pointless is that?
Upon arrival in Peterborough, I check the time and discover that I have about an hour to kill, so I start to wander up towards the shopping centre. As I pass a group of Middlesbrough fans, one of them asks me for directions to the College Arms. I look at him a little confused and shrug, then one of his travel companions points out that the blue shirt I'm wearing is in fact not a Peterborough shirt. This minor error turns out to be a source of amusement for his mates for several seconds.
I stroll around for a while before coming to the not-at-all-surprising conclusion that there is fuck all to do in Peterborough. So I go back to the station (which has an incomprehensibly tiny concourse) and wait it out until the 11.27 train arrives.
I manage to ignore everything around me for the duration of the journey to Doncaster, and at 12.20 or thereabouts I follow the signs to the bus interchange. Here I meet an old boy waiting for the same bus as me - the 909. He yaps on for a few minutes about timetables or some fucking thing, before Danielle sits down to my right, allowing my attention to shift naturally. Danielle, it turns out, is very friendly. She's also late for work, and increasingly agitated by the lateness of the bus.
After she departs a few stops later, I stick my face in a magazine until the bus pulls up at the Tesco opposite Glanford Park. Over the next half hour I have conversations with numerous regulars before making the now very familiar walk towards the away end. I say 'familiar' because Scunthorpe is by now one of those places I'm heartily sick of coming to. I fucking hate this town, it is a rogue dangleberry on the anus that is north east Lincolnshire.
One funny moment before kick off is Keith calling out the names on the back of people's shirts and waving as they turn round. Made me laugh anyway.
Within three minutes of the start of the game, Martyn Waghorn controls the ball on his chest before outpacing the nearest defender and poking the ball past Joe Murphy (who, as Leicester fans always delight in reminding him, lost in the 2000 Worthington Cup final as a Tranmere player. Ha!). The first half is almost entirely controlled by City, yet no further goals materialise.
Half time, some shit happens as per usual.
Second half is very similar to the first, Scunthorpe are barely even in this game. City aren't as dominant in this period but look safe enough right up until the third minute of injury time, when Jack Hobbs slips on his arse and the ball ends up with Martyn Woolford, who smashes his shot through the box and into the far corner - 1-1. Just like that.
Ten minutes after the game finishes, I reach Tesco. I've decided to grab some shopping so I can cook some late dinner when I get back home. At the checkout, I decide to go to the shortest queue. I should have known better really, and ten minutes later I'm still standing there waiting for some woman to pay with vouchers and her debit card for some fucking plants or something.
The next checkout along is by now empty, and as an added bonus the girl on it is a bit thick and gives me an extra quid change. I finally get back to the bus stop at 5.24, just in time to catch some blokes asking a Megabus driver when the next Stagecoach-operated service is due. Surely they realise that that's not how it works? As I stand there minding my own business, three Scunthorpe knobheads appear. They ask how I'm getting home (so I explain: bus to Donny, then two trains), then their tone changes and they start mouthing off about how they deserved a point, and how City weren't in the game in the second half. Feeling in an argumentative mood, I ask "What fucking game were you watching?" Apparently surprised to be challenged, they decline to answer the question and piss off to Tesco. Good, fuck off.
At this point, a bus arrives and all but one other person at the bus stop gets on. The one remaining person, Amy, has just finished her second shift serving burgers at the ground. She is not a football fan. We chat for a short while, then a bus back to the town centre arrives. The three Scunthorpe twats from before walk past and insist that this is my bus. In no mood for twattery, I reply "no, it's not, I've just told you I'm going to Doncaster." Then to Amy: "Thick cunts." She laughs, but I'm completely serious.
The 909 arrives, and almost all the way back into Donny I'm the only passenger. Just after the bus passes the Keepmoat Stadium, Danielle gets on again. That's a pleasant surprise.
At Doncaster station, I see a face I half expected - Alan, who we've come across before this season on more than one occasion. It seems we're on the same train, the 19.14 service. He, of course, is going all the way to King's Cross, whereas I'll be off at Peterborough to get the 20.52 back to Leicester. As the train rolls up, we manage to find a quiet place away from other travelling football fans (noisy fuckers, this is why I hate train travel on match days). Nothing exciting happens on this leg of the journey either. Alan eats an overpriced sandwich and drinks an overpriced coffee, and gives me his spare egg custard. And that's it.
I decide not to do too much wandering while waiting in Peterborough, and instead just stand, and wait, and watch people. I see a couple at the other side of the concourse, and a thought occurs: why on earth would a woman wear such a low-cut top when it is so cold? These thoughts disappear entirely when a girl of about 17 walks through the station with half her arse showing. Now that's got to be cold.
Back in Leicester, I decide to get the bus home. I take a seat at the bus stop, and at first the girl already waiting there seems harmless. As you probably expect, I start a conversation; she tells me her name, which I immediately forget, and that she's from Manchester or somewhere equally horrible, and so on. About two minutes later, her boyfriend and his mate arrive. They're shitfaced. Completely arseholed. Not unfriendly, but very very pissed. You know the type of drunk who assumes you need every word shouting from a distance of about one sixteenth of an inch? Well, I've got two of them. This ordeal lasts about four minutes, until my bus arrives. Finally.
I hate train travel. I hate talking to drunks. I hate going to Scunthorpe. Most of all, though, I hate watching Leicester drop points. Bastards.
Final score: Scunthorpe 1 Leicester 1
Time: 14 hours 12 minutes
Ticket: £18
Train: £25
Bus: £5.50
Total: £48.50
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