January 26th: Barnsley v Leicester City (Championship)
Helen has insisted on a 4pm meet at Fosse Park so we can get straight onto the motorway. She wants to get to the ground early. And she also hates average speed check zones, especially when the speed limit is set at an arbitrary and unnecessarily low 50 miles per hour.
The first such zone feels about four hundred miles long, all done at about 14 miles a year due to the build-up of traffic that apparently lies in front of us. Why is this speed check zone in place? Nobody appears to be actually working here. Traffic cones do not equal roadworks. Towards the end of this zone, Helen shows me where her car was bounced off a barrier by a lorry a few months ago. And still, nobody doing a lick of work, except the bloke to our immediate left. He appears to be reading, writing and talking on the phone, all whilst driving at 45mph. Who said men can't multitask? The fucking idiot.
[Actually, this isn't too bad for me. You may have realised from the Cardiff trip that I actually enjoy spending time around Helen for a variety of reasons, the most important of them being that she's very good conversation. So few people are good at this - I often suspect that I am one of those who is not - that you learn to make the most of those who are, even if they do occasionally shoot you a look of pure hatred after you give them erroneous directions. Repeatedly.]
As soon as we come out, the traffic that presumably was somewhere ahead of us holding everyone up moments ago suddenly vanishes. What the fuck?
Further up the M1 there's another, much shorter, of these zones, but it doesn't last nearly as long. Eventually we find ourselves in Barnsley. I start to get that feeling - you know the one I mean - that one gets upon entering a vaguely familiar town. That idea that you kind of know where you're going but don't want to commit to anything in case you end up in totally the wrong place. That recollection of certain buildings, structures and streets. Suddenly we're in a car park. It looks extraordinarily familiar. I've been here before, on a previous away trip. I look over the town centre and try to remember what direction everything is in, but to no avail. Asking for directions is the only way out.
Precisely three seconds after the nearest Barnsley fan starts to talk, I experience an almost photographic recall of the plan of central Barnsley. I try to terminate the conversation early, but he keeps talking. I thank him, and start to leave, and he keeps talking. The words "oh shit" flash up in my mind over and over again as I politely attempt on several occasions to arrest this little interaction. This conversation is never going to finish. And he's not even saying anything!
[This is the exact opposite of what we were talking about earlier. Many, many people have such little aptitude for conversation that they can talk for absolutely months without actually saying a fucking thing. Read back through this blog, you'll understand perfectly.]
I lead my sidekick (faultlessly and without hesitation, if I may say - photographic recall was indeed accurate) up to the stadium. I've never been to the club shop here, but I know it's not in the away end (obviously) so I turn right instead of left. After the mug is purchased, we make our way to the other end and decide to get into seats early. Not for the first time this season (or the last, I'm sure), seating will be unreserved. Before we can sit, though, Helen needs food. She picks from the menu something apparently called a pizza pod, or some fucking thing, and forks out £2.70 for what is essentially pastry, cheese and tomato. Whatever it is, more than half of it never gets eaten.
The match itself is not what you'd describe as a thriller, but not an awful game either. During the entire game, the two blokes behind us shout abuse at everyone from Ryan McGivern (who isn't playing!) to Paul Gallagher (who is, sort of) to Nigel Pearson (again). I'm almost sure that football fans used to taunt and abuse opposing players.
In the 77th minute, Roberto Colace scores the only goal of the game to give Barnsley their first win over City since March 1994. In fact, his goal is the first they've scored against Leicester since December 1995. Now there's some useless information.
Having endured some utterly nonsensical and baseless opinions throughout the game, we applaud the team off to the sound of whingeing.
As we leave the stadium, a bloke in a Leicester shirt walks alongside us. He offers his opinion. And when I say 'offers', I of course mean 'forces upon us without invitation': "Absolute shite!" He takes his blue shirt off and pretends to throw it into the road. "Rubbish!" he shouts at some unfixed point to his left.
I've now lost all my patience. "Don't fucking come then! If you don't enjoy watching the team, fuck off somewhere else!"
Apparently uncomfortable with this interjection, he speeds up his flight from the stadium area. Good, fuck off.
We get back to the car park and after just the one wrong turn we're back on the motorway going south. Normally on coaches I'm itching to fall asleep from the moment I sit in my seat. Not in this car; I don't think I could sleep while Helen's available for conversation. I'm happy with that. Less so with tonight's result.
Another away defeat. Bollocks.
Final score: Barnsley 1 Leicester 0
Time: 8 hours 37 minutes
Ticket: £20
Petrol money: £17.37
Total: £37.37
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