December 28th: Doncaster Rovers v Leicester City (Championship)
Doncaster is one of those places you only go to if you really have to.
[Like Birkenhead or Chesterfield or Mansfield or Leeds or south London or Bradford or Boston or Nottingham or Caboolture, Queensland or Dartford or Blackpool or Llandudno. Or Worksop.]
I leave the house a couple of minutes past seven and start my walk. The plan today is to get the 7.55 coach up to Sheffield, then get the X78 bus from there to Doncaster. That process turns out to be relatively trouble-free - no loons, no delays, no breakdowns, nothing. Just a comfortable-ish coach ride followed by a walk of a few yards to get the Donny bus. Today's going swimmingly.
As the bus shuffles along through Sheffield, stopping at Meadowhall, I observe the people walking past, getting on, going about their business. What a pleasant day! It feels like nothing could possibly go wrong.
The bus continues through South Yorkshire and enters Rotherham.
[Or Rotherham.]
I look out at the scenery. There's a freezer by the side of the road, lying on its side with its lid open. Underdressed 16-year-olds herd their ugly, unclean offspring towards some location that almost certainly sells either Lambert & Butler or Sunny Delight. The bus pushes on towards the interchange, and not slowly either. Presumably the driver hates Rotherham too.
The X78 arrives at Rotherham interchange to unload passengers. I remain on the bus, seated. My phone rings - it's Helen. No! NO! If this is what I think it is...
"Hello."
"Turn around."
FUCKING SHITTY FUCK!
I feel like crying.
[The problem here is that Doncaster's brand spanking new stadium doesn't even have undersoil heating. So of course, the frozen pitch was always going to remain frozen. Now can anybody tell me, what was the fucking point of Donny Rovers leaving their old Belle Vue ground if the new stadium wasn't going to have the basic mod cons? Undersoil heating should be mandatory for all clubs in the top two divisions at least. The fact that it isn't is the Football League's failure. Still, I can't decide which is worse: not having undersoil heating, or having it and not switching it on.]
I decide to press on to Doncaster - anything to avoid getting off at Rotherham - and see if I can find some alternative entertainment. Once at Donny Interchange, I decide to see if there's a non-league game nearby I can get to. Before I can do anything, though, I run into Alan again. He starts to talk about the best way to get to the ground, and I just shake my head. It seems the news hasn't travelled that fast. On hearing the news, Alan is livid, and understandably so - there's been no news of a pitch inspection, not on any radio station at least.
[Doncaster did a similar thing to Leeds and their fans in February 2008. See here for the story.]
A quick trip back to the railway station is in order to find out when the next Hull Trains service to King's Cross departs. Afterwards, we go and get some food and a copy of the Non League Paper before looking around the town centre for somewhere that shows Sky Sports. A quick look in the NLP tells me there's nothing within reasonable travelling distance below the Football League. We eventually happen upon a betting shop, where we discover that Sheffield United v Preston (too expensive) and Bradford v Shrewsbury (too far away) have both survived, whereas Chesterfield v Rotherham is off (I wouldn't have gone to it, even if it had somehow been played in my front garden).
After he goes off back to London on the 13.37 service, I decide to make my way back to Sheffield. On my way back through the interchange, no fewer than four people tell me the game is off. I just nod: "Yeah, I'm going home." I'm not, but it's easier and quicker than saying "Yeah, I'm going to wander around Sheffield for several hours, possibly find something to do and possibly not, before going home."
Eventually the X78 gets back to Sheffield (via Rotherham again - what an awful place that really is). There are worse places to be when you're pissed off than Sheffield. It doesn't take long to find the Arundel Gate Odeon, and the decision is made.
[This new Sherlock Holmes film is not terrible, by the way. Robert Downey Jr is of course marvellous, and Mark Strong is obviously talented. Even Jude Law is bearable. The whole flick, though, smells faintly of Guy Ritchie. If you're familiar with his work, you'll know what I mean. If you're not, lucky you.]
I get back to the bus station some 45 minutes before my coach is due. I take a seat in the waiting room, which is very well heated. When a young American man - Dwayne from the Miami area - walks in, I discover I've been sitting perfectly still for 20 minutes. For the next half hour, I talk to Dwayne about sports both British and American, baseball caps for some reason, his new life in Nottingham (never mind) and tattoos - he has several. He seems an interesting chap.
The coach arrives on time and it's time for some sleep before retreating back to the warmth. Another trip to another shithole and again I've seen no football. Fucking clowns.
Final score: Match postponed
Time: 14 hours 40 minutes
Ticket: £23
Coach: £10.90
Bus: £4.50
Total: £38.40
I wish Sky would piss off
December 26th: Leicester City v Sheffield United (Championship)
Yet again our football calendar has been subject to meddling from Sky TV, which means today's game is now a 6pm kick-off. I mean really, who the hell thought it'd be appropriate or convenient to kick off at 6pm?
Sheffield United are one of those sides I just cannot sympathise with. It only goes back as far as when Colin Wanker was their manager, but boy was he a cunt. It's not so deep a dislike now, but I still don't like seeing them win. Except against Coventry, obviously.
The early stages of the game give very little away, with both sides intent on going forward. City's defence looks a touch shaky to start with, but gets its act together before anything bad happens.
On 25 minutes, Michael Morrison - the central defender - shoots from at least 30 yards. The shot is tipped over the bar by Mark Bunn (subject of a very simple yet very offensive chant from the City fans earlier in the season - but he earned it). From the resulting corner, nobody seems particularly interested until the ball reaches Morrison's head, and by then it's too late for United - City lead 1-0.
Less than ten minutes later, Matty Fryatt trips over Nick Montgomery's foot as he dribbles across the United box. Darren Deadman immediately points to the spot. Fryatt goes bottom right corner, Bunn goes the wrong way. 2-0. Shortly before the break, Richie Wellens hits a half-volley from 25 yards, which rattles the bar.
At half time, it appears there's a young lady on the pitch. She's warbling, so it's fortunate I've got my iPod charged up.
The second half begins with the news that Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) has been withdrawn. His replacement is Luke O'Neill, a teenage right-back. As the team lines up, it becomes clear that O'Neill, making his third senior appearance, is playing at left-back. Ryan McGivern, a left-back, has been moved to the centre. So now our back four is Robbie Neilson and three kids, two of whom are out of position. For United, Henri Camara is on for Andy Taylor.
60 seconds into the second half, Morrison momentarily joins Neilson in being asleep, allowing Camara to poke the ball under Chris Weale. Almost immediately after the changes, in other words, the advantage is halved.
As the second half goes on, both sides go on the offensive. As City go forward, Dyer is constantly in several square miles of empty space. As the Blades attack, O'Neill is repeatedly turned inside out at left-back. As it happens, though, neither side adds to their tally and City play out a solid 2-1 win.
Another note from today before I finish up: Cardiff got their game against Plymouth on after they miraculously managed to switch on their undersoil heating. And lost 1-0. Fucking good.
Final score: Leicester 2 Sheffield United 1
Yet again our football calendar has been subject to meddling from Sky TV, which means today's game is now a 6pm kick-off. I mean really, who the hell thought it'd be appropriate or convenient to kick off at 6pm?
Sheffield United are one of those sides I just cannot sympathise with. It only goes back as far as when Colin Wanker was their manager, but boy was he a cunt. It's not so deep a dislike now, but I still don't like seeing them win. Except against Coventry, obviously.
The early stages of the game give very little away, with both sides intent on going forward. City's defence looks a touch shaky to start with, but gets its act together before anything bad happens.
On 25 minutes, Michael Morrison - the central defender - shoots from at least 30 yards. The shot is tipped over the bar by Mark Bunn (subject of a very simple yet very offensive chant from the City fans earlier in the season - but he earned it). From the resulting corner, nobody seems particularly interested until the ball reaches Morrison's head, and by then it's too late for United - City lead 1-0.
Less than ten minutes later, Matty Fryatt trips over Nick Montgomery's foot as he dribbles across the United box. Darren Deadman immediately points to the spot. Fryatt goes bottom right corner, Bunn goes the wrong way. 2-0. Shortly before the break, Richie Wellens hits a half-volley from 25 yards, which rattles the bar.
At half time, it appears there's a young lady on the pitch. She's warbling, so it's fortunate I've got my iPod charged up.
The second half begins with the news that Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) has been withdrawn. His replacement is Luke O'Neill, a teenage right-back. As the team lines up, it becomes clear that O'Neill, making his third senior appearance, is playing at left-back. Ryan McGivern, a left-back, has been moved to the centre. So now our back four is Robbie Neilson and three kids, two of whom are out of position. For United, Henri Camara is on for Andy Taylor.
60 seconds into the second half, Morrison momentarily joins Neilson in being asleep, allowing Camara to poke the ball under Chris Weale. Almost immediately after the changes, in other words, the advantage is halved.
As the second half goes on, both sides go on the offensive. As City go forward, Dyer is constantly in several square miles of empty space. As the Blades attack, O'Neill is repeatedly turned inside out at left-back. As it happens, though, neither side adds to their tally and City play out a solid 2-1 win.
Another note from today before I finish up: Cardiff got their game against Plymouth on after they miraculously managed to switch on their undersoil heating. And lost 1-0. Fucking good.
Final score: Leicester 2 Sheffield United 1
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
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
Back to basics
December 12th: Leicester City v Sheffield Wednesday (Championship)
A lot of people seem to be expecting City to lose today. I don't know why, Wednesday are terrible. As bad as we've been the last two games, Wednesday are worse. Still, our last two home games against the Owls have seen them score seven goals (1-4 and 1-3), so perhaps it's not so crazy.
Sitting in the southesast corner, as I often do, means I often get to listen to Helen's theories about personal relationships within the team. She's not a psychologist, you understand - just a harmless loon. Perhaps the funniest (and, surprisingly, most believable) conclusion she's arrived at is that Andy King and Michael Morrison are in a relationship. The clues, apparently, are there.
After a brief diversion to the club shop (as a favour to someone else), I make my way up to the aforementioned area. In the early moments of the game, City take control and create some nice looking attacking moves. Only eight minutes have passed when Matty Fryatt hooks a cross towards Steve Howard, who smashes a header into the net behind Lee Grant. On 25, Andy King finishes from close range to double the lead. Given the way the Owls are playing, them getting so much as a draw seems far-fetched, even at this early stage.
On 36, Wednesday boss Brian Laws brings on Tom Soares and Michael Gray for Jermaine Johnson (their best player so far) and Darren Potter. The visiting fans in the northeast corner can be heard shouting "You don't know what you're doing". A lot of those not chanting this are booing. This is not a nice time for them, their team or their manager. I don't envy them one bit.
It's the 73rd minute when Andy King's neat strike puts the game well beyond a very poor Wednesday side. Towards the end of the game, their fans cheer every off-target shot their team manage. At one point, a cross into the City box finds Marcus Tudgay, who succeeds only in clearing it. This is very poor opposition.
No longer will I be reminded of freak 4-1 defeats when I think of the Owls. Roll on next Saturday.
Final score: Leicester 3 Sheffield Wednesday 0
A lot of people seem to be expecting City to lose today. I don't know why, Wednesday are terrible. As bad as we've been the last two games, Wednesday are worse. Still, our last two home games against the Owls have seen them score seven goals (1-4 and 1-3), so perhaps it's not so crazy.
Sitting in the southesast corner, as I often do, means I often get to listen to Helen's theories about personal relationships within the team. She's not a psychologist, you understand - just a harmless loon. Perhaps the funniest (and, surprisingly, most believable) conclusion she's arrived at is that Andy King and Michael Morrison are in a relationship. The clues, apparently, are there.
After a brief diversion to the club shop (as a favour to someone else), I make my way up to the aforementioned area. In the early moments of the game, City take control and create some nice looking attacking moves. Only eight minutes have passed when Matty Fryatt hooks a cross towards Steve Howard, who smashes a header into the net behind Lee Grant. On 25, Andy King finishes from close range to double the lead. Given the way the Owls are playing, them getting so much as a draw seems far-fetched, even at this early stage.
On 36, Wednesday boss Brian Laws brings on Tom Soares and Michael Gray for Jermaine Johnson (their best player so far) and Darren Potter. The visiting fans in the northeast corner can be heard shouting "You don't know what you're doing". A lot of those not chanting this are booing. This is not a nice time for them, their team or their manager. I don't envy them one bit.
It's the 73rd minute when Andy King's neat strike puts the game well beyond a very poor Wednesday side. Towards the end of the game, their fans cheer every off-target shot their team manage. At one point, a cross into the City box finds Marcus Tudgay, who succeeds only in clearing it. This is very poor opposition.
No longer will I be reminded of freak 4-1 defeats when I think of the Owls. Roll on next Saturday.
Final score: Leicester 3 Sheffield Wednesday 0
Fantastic!
December 8th: Leicester City v Bristol City (Championship)
I stop off in town on the way home from work to pick up a few things, and while I'm out shopping I receive a call. The young lady on the other end of the line introduces herself and informs me that she's calling from Fantastic Telecom. This is a company I've never heard of, but nonetheless I allow her to elaborate. It seems this call is a follow up from when I had a spare ten minutes (at work) and filled in the Football League Survey. I know this because she spends the first few minutes of the call talking about tonight's game. Football chatter isn't her strong point.
Eventually she starts to outline the phone and internet deal she's been tasked with offering me. It's cheaper than what I'm paying now, certainly, but it's not for me. As the call ends, my mind goes back to something she said: "Ten per cent of your bill goes directly to the Leicester City academy." Yeah, that's a fucking charity isn't it? What a load of cock that idea really is. As if I don't spend enough money on this club already, I've now got phone companies asking me to donate part of my phone bill to the football club to aid their youth system, so they can help other people become rich at my further expense. No, sorry, that idea is beyond terrible.
I go home, wash and change, then come straight back out again to walk down to the stadium. I'm hoping that tonight we can forget about last weekend. Saturday was a freak, an anomaly. I arrive in plenty of time and talk to the usuals for a short while, then sit numbly watching the rain fall. Last Saturday is still in my head.
[Here's something from the abnormally long list of things that have always bugged me: people referring to one or other Bristol-based football club simply as 'Bristol'. It doesn't seem to make any difference whether the club in question is City or Rovers; both clubs' rightful suffixes are far too often ignored. Do we refer to Sheffield Wednesday simply as 'Sheffield'? No. Do we call the Premier League champions 'Manchester'? No. So fucking stop it. Two Football League clubs reside in Bristol, one is Rovers and the other is City. If you don't make sure I know which one you're talking about, my eyes will quickly glaze over and you'll soon be talking to an empty husk. There, rant over.]
The first quarter of an hour passes, and something's not right. I feel as if I'm just waiting for it to happen. Just waiting... And there it is. Ivan Sproule's dribble into the box beats Ryan McGivern, Richie Wellens, Andy King and Wayne Brown before a neat finish puts the Robins in front. After a bit of weak resistance from City, the visitors' lead is doubled when Cole Skuse lets one fly from 30 yards or more. Half time comes, and we're in exactly the same position we were at the same point at Forest.
At half time, Alan Birchenall etc.
The second half sees further wasted chances, one substitution (for anyone who's interested, Matty Fryatt in place of Dany N'Guessan), and little else until the 76th minute. An attacking move breaks down and the visitors break quickly. Skuse moves the ball rapidly up the pitch as Evander Sno makes an incredible run to his left. At exactly the right time, Skuse releases the ball to Sno and the big Dutchman nails it past Chris Weale at the near post. 3-0 down. Hundreds head for the exits.
Four minutes later, Martyn Waghorn's brainless challenge on Jamie McAllister earns him a red card. Even more people head for the door. That tops off a really great night, doesn't it? Not only are the team getting stuffed but they're also losing their discipline.
Late in injury time, Fryatt runs onto a long hoof from Weale and places a shot into the far corner of Dean Gerken's goal for an entirely pointless 'consolation' goal. I use inverted commas for 'consolation' because the goal is, of course, nothing of the sort.
Time to go. One win in five since the QPR game, yet I'm still not all that worried. At least it's better than two years ago.
Final score: Leicester 1 Bristol City 3
I stop off in town on the way home from work to pick up a few things, and while I'm out shopping I receive a call. The young lady on the other end of the line introduces herself and informs me that she's calling from Fantastic Telecom. This is a company I've never heard of, but nonetheless I allow her to elaborate. It seems this call is a follow up from when I had a spare ten minutes (at work) and filled in the Football League Survey. I know this because she spends the first few minutes of the call talking about tonight's game. Football chatter isn't her strong point.
Eventually she starts to outline the phone and internet deal she's been tasked with offering me. It's cheaper than what I'm paying now, certainly, but it's not for me. As the call ends, my mind goes back to something she said: "Ten per cent of your bill goes directly to the Leicester City academy." Yeah, that's a fucking charity isn't it? What a load of cock that idea really is. As if I don't spend enough money on this club already, I've now got phone companies asking me to donate part of my phone bill to the football club to aid their youth system, so they can help other people become rich at my further expense. No, sorry, that idea is beyond terrible.
I go home, wash and change, then come straight back out again to walk down to the stadium. I'm hoping that tonight we can forget about last weekend. Saturday was a freak, an anomaly. I arrive in plenty of time and talk to the usuals for a short while, then sit numbly watching the rain fall. Last Saturday is still in my head.
[Here's something from the abnormally long list of things that have always bugged me: people referring to one or other Bristol-based football club simply as 'Bristol'. It doesn't seem to make any difference whether the club in question is City or Rovers; both clubs' rightful suffixes are far too often ignored. Do we refer to Sheffield Wednesday simply as 'Sheffield'? No. Do we call the Premier League champions 'Manchester'? No. So fucking stop it. Two Football League clubs reside in Bristol, one is Rovers and the other is City. If you don't make sure I know which one you're talking about, my eyes will quickly glaze over and you'll soon be talking to an empty husk. There, rant over.]
The first quarter of an hour passes, and something's not right. I feel as if I'm just waiting for it to happen. Just waiting... And there it is. Ivan Sproule's dribble into the box beats Ryan McGivern, Richie Wellens, Andy King and Wayne Brown before a neat finish puts the Robins in front. After a bit of weak resistance from City, the visitors' lead is doubled when Cole Skuse lets one fly from 30 yards or more. Half time comes, and we're in exactly the same position we were at the same point at Forest.
At half time, Alan Birchenall etc.
The second half sees further wasted chances, one substitution (for anyone who's interested, Matty Fryatt in place of Dany N'Guessan), and little else until the 76th minute. An attacking move breaks down and the visitors break quickly. Skuse moves the ball rapidly up the pitch as Evander Sno makes an incredible run to his left. At exactly the right time, Skuse releases the ball to Sno and the big Dutchman nails it past Chris Weale at the near post. 3-0 down. Hundreds head for the exits.
Four minutes later, Martyn Waghorn's brainless challenge on Jamie McAllister earns him a red card. Even more people head for the door. That tops off a really great night, doesn't it? Not only are the team getting stuffed but they're also losing their discipline.
Late in injury time, Fryatt runs onto a long hoof from Weale and places a shot into the far corner of Dean Gerken's goal for an entirely pointless 'consolation' goal. I use inverted commas for 'consolation' because the goal is, of course, nothing of the sort.
Time to go. One win in five since the QPR game, yet I'm still not all that worried. At least it's better than two years ago.
Final score: Leicester 1 Bristol City 3
Reds, blues, Nazis and Commies
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
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
Doncaster's that way
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
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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