League debut

January 16th: Swansea City v Leicester City (Championship)

I switch Maniac Junior's bedroom light on. The clock says 3am.
"Time to get up, we have to go."
"Mm? Watimisit?"
"3 o'clock. Taxi will be here soon."
She nods. I go downstairs and get myself ready. Within ten minutes, she's at the bottom of the stairs, bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead, with her various bags clinging to different appendages. One look at her tells me I may have made a serious error of judgment bringing her along today - she's more awake than I am.

The taxi ride is a welcome change for someone used to walking this part of the trip. It seems unreasonable to make Maniac Jr walk that sort of distance at three on a Saturday morning. The coach arrives on time, just, and as I take my seat I start to look forward to catching up on my sleep. I know, just know, she won't allow that. Sure enough, the moment I drop off... "Dad!" I'm startled awake. Her enunciation of the word 'Dad' is such that it sounds like she's panicking all the time.
"Yes?"
"The lights outside are really bright."
"Hmm." I consider the sentence. "What?"
"I can't get to sleep. Can I shut the curtain?"
"No, the end of the curtain is all the way over there and closing it means disturbing other sleeping passengers."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh. It was you who picked this seat, remember?"

So back to sleep... "Dad!"
"Yes?"
"Can I have something to eat?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's 5am."
"Oh. Can I have my milkshake?"
"Go for it."

We get to Northampton. I point to some seats opposite. From there, she'll be able to reach the nearby curtain and block out the lights that are apparently keeping her awake. So we switch, and she brings her trio of bags with her. The curtain is pulled across. I wait. And eventually, she goes to sleep.

At feeding time in London, Maniac Jr opts for a croissant with jam. Before you ask, I don't know where she got that idea from. I'm not worried that it won't carry her through the day though - she's got a bag full of food somewhere.

We wait for the coach, and she spies a clock on the electronic screen at the gate. "Sixteen minutes."
"Hmm." Another thought, apparently apropos of nothing, to consider. "What?"
"It's 8.44. Sixteen minutes."
Of course. "Thanks."
She grins.

"Fifteen minutes."
"Right."
Grins.

"Fourteen minutes."
I'm sensing a pattern here.
"Thirteen minutes."
"You're aware, are you not, that I can also see the clock? I'm standing literally inches from you."
Grins. Point made methinks.

"Twelve minutes."
I nod in agreement. I wonder, not for the first time, how long this day is going to be.

Half an hour after the coach leaves Victoria, I start to drift off to sleep again. So of course, the next thing I know...
"Dad!"
In lieu of words, I just look at her.
"Can I have some crisps?"
"You've just had breakfast."

Maniac Jr buries her head in a book for the journey as far as Cardiff, but that doesn't stop her waking me up every so often to ask an inane question. This represents perhaps the longest three hours of my entire life.

We get off at Cardiff and as we have over half an hour before the train to Swansea, we go in search of a sports shop. The cumbersome array of bags, rucksacks and lunch boxes previously strapped to Maniac Jr is now consolidated into one large, cheap rucksack. Much easier.

The train to Swansea takes just short of an hour, leaving us two hours before kick-off. Plenty of time to walk it. Following directions from a police officer, we walk up High Street. It becomes very clear very quickly that this particular part of Swansea is best described as 'squalid'. In the first few minutes of our walk, several people made futile attempts to intimidate the interloper. Quite frankly they can fuck off.

[Seriously, what sort of absolute cunt tries to start something with a bloke while he's obviously out with his daughter for the day? Wankers. This month's FourFourTwo contains a letter from a Swansea fan, presumably written with tears welling up in his eyes, about the unfair and unjustified apprehension and police presences they are met with in other towns. Well this is why: because such a large percentage of your fans (and I hate to be so blunt about it) are cunts.]

As we walk, I notice two signs that directly contradict each other. Good start. Neath Road sounds familiar, though, so we walk down it for a while and eventually the stadium comes into view. After a quick diversion to the club shop, we meet up with some other lunatics before finding the away end.

Inside, I find myself disappointed. See, the thing about Swansea's new ground is it's exactly the fucking same as every other 'new' ground, just with different colour seats. Bigger than some, smaller than others, but essentially the same shape as more or less every ground built in the last fifteen years. I'm a bit bored of going to grounds that look identical to dozens of others, but I don't suppose there's much we can do about it. It's progress after all.

After beating the same side in the FA Cup two weeks ago, we just have to lose the league game. It's just how things work sometimes. And so it proves, the only goal of the game scored from close range by Gorka Pintado.

[There's one thing worth mentioning here. During the game, the bloke two to my left makes several comments that just need to be known by a wider audience. I hope you enjoy the following:

During the first half - "If he thinks this team's good enough we want to change the manager."
Shortly after a pointless whinge about Andy King - "Why's he not started Wellens?"
During the second half - "Sort it out Pearson. You fuckin' idiot!"
When Wellens strips off ready to come on - "Why not bring N'Guessan on? He's got two winners against these already!"
A couple of minutes later, when Pearson apparently changes his mind and brings on N'Guessan for Lloyd Dyer - "No! You fuckin' IDIOT!"

Now this is what annoys me. This bloke here is a perfect example of someone who disagrees with everything the manager does, even when it's precisely what he was demanding seconds ago. This sort of 'fan' would not be missed if they all disappeared up their own arses.]

Right outside the exit sits the bus back to the station. Bob gets on too, and we converse on the way back. After a short while, the bus comes to a stop in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. The words 'broken down' float towards the back of the bus. Suddenly the lights go out completely. We're sat in pitch black. The two police officers at the front oversee half the passengers transferring to the bus in front before the lights miraculously come back on again and the bus starts working. Shortest breakdown ever.

Bob manages to talk himself onto the early train, alongside a mutual friend who shall remain nameless, at least for now. It turns out Robbie (that didn't last long, did it?) hasn't bought a ticket all the way back to his local station somewhere in Warwickshire. For reasons he never reveals, he wants to know whether this train stops in Didcot. It does not. When we get off again at Cardiff, I'm still wondering where the hell he's going to end up spending the night.

Back in Cardiff, Maniac Jr and I have just shy of an hour to grab some food. We find a takeaway round the corner called Wok to Walk (which, by the way, I would recommend visiting if you're ever in Cardiff) and both decide on chicken and egg noodles. After my first few bites, it occurs to me that I've never knowingly eaten bean sprouts. It seems I've missed out.

We finish our food in classy fashion - with plastic forks while sitting in a bus shelter. Moments after we finish, the coach back to London pulls up. Not five minutes after we start moving - and I wish I was exaggerating here, but I'm not - Maniac Jr asks if she can make a start on the pasta salad she's brought with her. Now, bear in mind, she's just eaten a massive box of chicken, noodles and veg. She demolishes half the pasta salad very quickly and with no difficulty whatsoever.

As the coach reaches Cardiff University, I notice the driver is talking on his phone. It seems there's a problem with the demisters on his window, or something. When we arrive in Newport, we wait. Someone meets the coach and appears to fix the problem. I fall asleep as the coach pulls away.

"Dad!"
Awake, again. "Yes?"
"Can I have..."
"How can you be hungry?"
Shrugs.
"I don't think there's any more food left." I notice we've stopped. We appear to be at some services on the M4. "What are we doing here?"
Shrugs. Brilliant.

The driver is on his phone again. I hear the words 'breakdown' and 'replacement coach', followed shortly by 'forty-five minutes'. I also ascertain that we're not far outside Newport. Some quick calculations send me into panic - we're not going to be back at Victoria for 11.30, when our coach back to Leicester leaves. This is a problem. I go up and speak to the driver and ask him whether he thinks we'll be back by then. He doubts it. The phone rings, and he has another conversation with someone in an office somewhere. He tells them our situation. After he hangs up, I'm informed the 440 will be held for us until we arrive. Problem solved.

It's 11.48 when we finally arrive at Victoria - an hour and 33 minutes behind schedule - and we're met off the coach by an officious-looking and severely-dressed woman. "Come on, the coach is waiting for you," she says in an impatient tone. Does it look like it's my fucking fault? Cow.

I finally get some uninterrupted sleep on the way back to Leicester (it feels like my first in days) and we roll off the coach and into a taxi.

This has been a very long day. Bed beckons.

We hardly ever win in Wales. Let's hope Bristol City win on Tuesday.

Final score: Swansea 1 Leicester 0
Time: 23 hours 55 minutes
Ticket: £25
Coach: £20
Train: £6.50
Total: £51.50
Extra cost of taking a small person: £10 + £20 + £3.25 + an unfathomable amount on food