Kirismass!

December 19th: Cardiff City v Leicester City (Championship)

Please note: there is no Welsh translation for the following, because firstly Welsh isn't a real language, and secondly because anyone who speaks it also understands English, so it would be pointless beyond measure.

First things first. Leicester City Football Club took £26 out of my bank account two weeks ago to pay for my ticket for this game. It was allegedly sent out on Friday, December 4th, by post. This is how my tickets always arrive. Bob, who lives in Kent, received his ticket the next day. Paul and Janice, who live in Cleethorpes, received theirs early the following week. I, who live less than a mile and a half from the ticket office, have received nothing. Because of this, I've had to phone the club and get them to order up a duplicate of my ticket for me to collect from the Cardiff ticket office.

[During my call to the ticket office, I also discovered that they simply haven't bothered to even process my ticket for the December 28th game at Doncaster. No reason given, they just haven't fucking bothered.]

Late on Friday night, I receive a two-word text message. It simply says "Pitch inspection." Seems a little odd, Cardiff have a new stadium (imaginatively named the Cardiff City Stadium). Undeterred, I'm up at 2.30 and manage to get out of the house for 3.06am. I walk in a pretty leisurely way down to the coach station and arrive a couple of minutes before the departure time of 4.25.

A saving of almost £25 has been made possible today by the usual diversion to London. A 7am arrival gives me plenty of time for breakfast before my 9.30 coach to Cardiff. I have my usual wander, gather a few things for the journey, and make my way back. As I sit waiting, I talk briefly to a girl called Matilda (really) before hearing the announcement that, due to extreme weather conditions in Calais, all Eurolines services have been cancelled. That's unfortunate.

The coach doesn't get far before I'm asleep. During my slumber, I receive a couple of text messages and apparently one voicemail. As I wake up to notice the coach is rolling into Newport bus station, I read the messages. They tell me nothing. Instead of listening to the voicemail (in my experience, they're almost always a short recording of people saying something like "bloody answer phone" in the distance before hanging up) I text Helen. I immediately receive a phone call from her. It begins with her saying "Tell me you know." No, I don't know anything. I'm getting a horrible feeling I'm about to, though.
"It was called off at 11."
Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitshitshitfuck. Shit. FUCK.

[Right, time to have a fucking moan. Cardiff's stadium opened several months ago. It is a new stadium. It has got undersoil heating. So what possible excuse has the club got for a league fixture being postponed because of a frozen pitch? I'll tell you what excuses they've got: fuck all none, that's what. Ridsdale is going to be getting an invoice for £28 from me. The twat.]

There's nothing I can do at this point - I'm booked on the 7pm coach back to London, and it'll cost me to change it - so I decide to carry on to Cardiff and try to get something out of the day.

I step off the bus and start to walk. I make my way towards the main road that ultimately leads to the stadium. I've not been off the bus five minutes at this point. As I start down Penarth Road, a voice comes from my left: "Y'okay?" I look for the source of the sound and find a small man walking a few feet over, grinning. Before I can reply, he shouts "Have a good day!" There's a hint of an African accent of some sort in there. Somehow, this adds to the surreal nature of the moment. He walks ahead a little, then starts to sing: "Ki-rismass! Whoa-oh-oh! Whoa-oh-oh-oh!" Turns back. Grins. Fucks off.

[Peter Ridsdale really is a cunt. He played a massive part in Leeds' downfall, being responsible for an amazing amount of debt (well over £100 million) being loaded onto the club, the sales of players he promised would never be sold (Ferdinand, Woodgate etc), and assorted outright lies to fans, managers and players. He then somehow became chairman of Barnsley, a club he rapidly took to the brink of liquidation, before he again resurfaced at Cardiff. Is it a coincidence that the Bluebirds now owe more than £30 million? No, of course it fucking isn't. In addition to this, in May 2009 his consultancy firm (that's a fucking laugh isn't it?) WH Sports went bust owing £410,000, £374,000 of which to HM Revenue & Customs. Given that Ridsdale appears to have displayed utter and total ineptitude in every management post he's ever held, how he keeps popping up in positions of responsibility is a complete mystery.]

I walk to the ground and have a look around the club shop (fuck all any good in there) and then make my way back to the city centre. On my way back, several apologetic Cardiff fans strike up conversation. I don't know why they're all apologising - it's the amateurs running their club who've fucked it up, not them.

A variety of rumours appear to be circulating. One is that the club haven't paid their contractors, who are required to turn the undersoil heating on. Another is that the system isn't connected up because they can't afford all the parts. Yet another suggests a gas bill has gone unpaid. Whichever one (if any) is right, it's nowhere near good enough for a club which purports to have Premier League ambitions.

Eventually I find Cineworld, and opt to sit down in front of Law Abiding Citizen, which turns out not to be terrible. That's my movie review for the week. What were you expecting, Dilys fucking Powell? Piss off.

Back at the bus station, I talk to Mary for a few minutes before the bus arrives. Then Bob appears. He's stayed on the same coach as well then. As we pull away, the driver does the usual safety announcements in his best Max Boyce accent, much to the bemusement of the Cardiff fan sitting behind me.

Most of the trip is spent asleep, and before I'm fully awake Bob has waved and gone - his train leaves in a matter of minutes. Eventually I rise and make my way towards the outside world. With over an hour to kill, I decide now is a good time to eat. However, during the next 30 minutes walking up and down Buckingham Palace Road looking for food establishments charging anything near what their wares are actually worth, I find a grand total of none fitting that description. Something I do encounter hundreds of, though, is what we in this country call 'inconsiderate twats': the sort of people who see you walking in a straight line and make it their business to stand directly in the way of said line; the sort of people who congregate in large groups outside restaurant doorways; the sort of fucking arseholes who blow smoke right in your face as you walk past, as if you're not there. Fuckers.

I go back to the coach station in an even worse mood than before. Not only have I been on the move since 3am, but I've not eaten since lunchtime. It is now 11pm. Just as I'm muttering a series of swearwords to myself, something appears to lighten up my day. A man and an older woman (possibly his mother) approach the crowd of people at bay 18 (which includes me). He is clutching in his right hand a couple of carrier bags from the O2 Arena, which appear crammed with souvenirs from whatever event he's attended there today. A look at his t-shirt tells us what that event was. Make sure you're sitting down when you read this, please. Comfortable? Okay. Standing in front of me, boys and girls, is a man easily in his late 30s, wearing a Miley Cyrus t-shirt. His bags are stuffed with Miley tat. We have the world's most inappropriate Miley Cyrus fan. And that is enough to cheer me up for part of my coach trip home, but after I step off in Leicester and embark on another long walk the realisation hits home: I haven't actually seen any fucking football.

Final score: Match postponed
Time: 24 hours 49 minutes
Ticket: £26
Coach: £28
Total: £54