December 5th: Nottingham Forest v Leicester City (Championship)
Fucking National Express. For a variety of reasons, I had to change my booking for today. When I did so on the phone, I wasn't given quite all the information that I needed. To cut a long story short, Helen and I have missed our coach, which means we're now walking at a good pace to catch a train.
We arrive at 10.30, with the next train expected at 10.45. In the event, it's a little earlier than that but of course it's full of other fans, which subtracts from the experience massively. Fortunately, the trip to Nottingham isn't that long, and when we arrive we go in the opposite direction to the others to avoid any unnecessary police escort (such as the one that ludicrously accompanied Derby fans to the Walkers Stadium some weeks back) that might be lurking around the corner. We needn't have worried, because it seems the police aren't as bothered about this game as we thought they might have been.
[Incidentally, there are three other events going on in Nottingham today that will require significant police presence. Trouble making pretend anarchists Unite Against Fascism and reactionary racist twats the English Defence League both have demos arranged, and there's also a military parade in the city. Yeah, can't see anything going wrong there.]
We walk down towards the two neighbouring stadia, and not long before we reach Meadow Lane, home of Notts County, I decide this is a perfect opportunity to boost my mug collection. Inside the Magpies' club shop, I discover one of the more obscure pieces of football merchandise: an official Notts County Football Club, erm, tape measure. After that stop, it's on to the City Ground just the other side of the river (and, confusingly, not in the city) to purchase another mug.
[Here's something that's always bothered me. Nottingham Forest are actually not in Nottingham; their ground is actually in West Bridgford. At the same time, Notts County are in the city of Nottingham, yet represent the county. I don't know why this bothers me, it just does.]
After an absurdly long time queueing to pay for my second drinking vessel of the day, I emerge from possibly the most badly-designed club shop in all of the Football League and find Helen outside. Time to go in.
Eventually we find the right entrance and make our way to our seats. I wouldn't say I dislike sitting as low down as the third row, but I do fucking hate it. Make of that what you will. I watch as the seats around us fill up, some with people I recognise, a lot more with people I don't. The countdown to kick-off is almost over, yet many, many seats are still empty.
To go through the events of the game in detail would, I fear, cause me to become suicidal. Besides, that's not what you're here for is it? So instead, I'll just say this: Forest score five times. City score once.
[I hardly ever criticise any part of the team here, but this needs saying: Today, almost every player in a blue shirt was considerably substandard. The entire back four in particular need to have serious words with themselves.]
We walk back to the Broadmarsh shopping centre and find somewhere to drink coffee before making our way outside to the bus station. We reach the stand from which all the National Express coaches leave, and we talk as we wait. Ten minutes later, I notice that the previous coach, which was standing at the exit when we arrived, is still standing in the exact same spot. So I watch as we wait. And still nothing happens. And still nothing. And then, all of a sudden, nothing. Just when I'm about to resign myself to never getting out of Nottingham - a fate worse than having an escaped mental patient let loose on your genitals with a pair of tweezers - about a dozen police vans make a beeline for a single street. My first thought is that those EDL cunts have kicked off somewhere, but then I realise I don't care. Some minutes later, things start moving again, and a short time after that the 230 - not our coach - arrives and the driver lets us on anyway.
As I arrive home at 6.20, my mind starts asking questions of itself. Will they make up for it on Tuesday? (Fuck knows.) What on earth was going on with those substitutions? (Fuck knows. Again.) Why the fuck did Wayne Brown play against such a pacey front line? (For a third time, fuck knows.) And how much of the Football League Show will I be able to watch before turning it off in despair? (In the event, 37 minutes.)
Final score: West Bridgford Trees 5 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 48 minutes
Ticket: £30 (That's right - thirty fucking quid!)
Coach: £4.40
Total: £34.40
2 comments:
Didn't you have to pay for the train ticket too?
Sadly I did, yes, but I've not counted it because it was an avoidable expense.
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