February 20th: Plymouth Argyle v Leicester City (Championship)
It's fixtures like this that make me very happy that I have a friend who drives to games. In respect of this, as we meet at Fosse Park shortly before 8am I tell Helen she's not paying for any food or coffee she might like to consume today. This and her ticket constitutes today's bribe.
A hair over one hour into the journey, including a stop to find out why the driver's side window wiper is not actually touching the window, we're seeing the turn-off for Tewkesbury. That sounds remarkably quick. A stop at Sedgemoor services gives us time to get breakfast and hot drinks.
[Aren't motorway service stations wonderful? The only other place in the world you can eat shit food and come out with just the shirt on your back is prison, so well done to the motorway service industry for recreating that experience.]
At noon we pass the sign welcoming us to Plymouth. Not long afterwards, we've navigated our way to the stadium car park, which is free. Brilliant! We take a walk up one side of the stadium to find the club shop (mug purchased) and then back where we came from.
[At this stage we come across Sinclair and Stringer, of BBC Radio Leicester, erm, fame. Now, I like these two, on the very few occasions I've met them they've come across as very nice men. But have you read some of the utter wank Stringer comes out with on Twitter? I know that Twitter is, at best, just a way of people broadcasting their most insipid moment-to-moment thoughts to a bunch of cunts with nothing better to do with their time than read the inane shit that goes through other people's heads (apologies to Helen, but it really is) but he seems to take vapidity to a completely new level.]
After a couple of phone calls, a work-related acquaintance arrives with his two daughters, aged 9 and 4.
[Mark's an Arsenal fan, and has indoctrinated these two. I can just imagine him breaking the news to these kids about today:
"I'm taking you two to your first football match on Saturday!"
"Wow, thanks dad, will we be watching Arsenal?"
"Erm, no. Not quite."
"Oh. Who are we watching then."
(Mumbles incoherently into a conveniently placed fist.)
"What did you say daddy?"
"Erm... Plymouth and Leicester."
"Eh?"
"I'm so sorry."]
The coming week is apparently Plymouth's Armed Forces Week. This is why, apparently, there are marines on the roof preparing some sort of display. The stadium announcer informs us that Pilgrim Pete - the Argyle mascot - has gone missing. Some people cheer and clap this fact, until he threatens to "bring back the physio from Swansea".
[In the highly unlikely event that anyone ever asks you which club has the funniest stadium announcer in English football is, I reckon Plymouth is as good an answer as any. The run-up to kick-off is a perfect example of how truly insane the people around this club are.]
We then find out why Pilgrim Pete is missing - he's on the roof. And he's going to abseil down. Really. This place is a mad house.
Just past the half hour mark of a match played on one of the worst pitches I've seen in years (the next worst one is, I expect, some four levels below the Football League), Kári Árnason inexplicably rolls the ball into his own net to put City in front. This is probably the strangest goal we'll score this season.
Only seven minutes after the opener, Craig Noone gets his head onto a Chris Clark cross for the leveller. Bollocks.
At half time, we're treated to probably the best interval entertainment ever - marines kicking the fuck out of each other. This is a cracking day out.
If I try to talk you through the second half I'll probably fall asleep and you'll stop reading (assuming, of course, that you've actually managed to get this far).
We leave the ground, and agree to meet Mark and his family in the town centre for some food in a short while. We eventually find our way to the centre and locate a Chinese restaurant. Table for seven? Well... yes. Fifteen minutes later, it transpires that Mark's been unable to locate his wife and is going to have to give it a miss. Table for two then.
[If you're ever on Mayflower Street in Plymouth and are really hungry for Chinese food, go somewhere else for it. This place is crap.]
After some confusion (caused entirely by my increasingly bad short-term memory), we find our way back to the A38. I can feel myself fighting to stay alert and awake here.
Apparently I lost the battle quite some time ago and fell asleep. To my mind, that's just about the most impolite thing you can do on a journey like this. If I could have avoided it, I would. We're now at Bridgwater services. I need coffee. I'm staying awake for the rest of this trip.
On the way back, I find myself wide awake but mostly just staring out into the startling blackness of the evening. Several complex thoughts swirl around my head, about a variety of different subjects. One, however, keeps returning: that was an amazingly poor game.
Final score: Plymouth 1 Leicester 1
Time: 15 hours 50 minutes
Ticket: £24
Bribe: £16 ticket, £14.38 food and coffee
Total: £54.38
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