February 6th: Blackpool v Leicester City (Championship)
The front door closes at 6.55, and I walk out into the cold. It's just about cold enough here for me to see my breath. It's nowhere near as cold as when I left the house on this same trip two years ago. Mind you, on that trip I left the house much earlier, so that's probably no surprise.
[Unfortunately, today's adventure will be compared to my previous trip to Blackpool, which was two years ago almost to the day. The reason for this is simple: that 2-1 defeat represents the worst away trip I've ever endured. It was just horrible, from its bright-eyed and excited 4.30am start to its defeated and broken 1am finish.]
One slightly odd moment on the bus journey into town is the bus driver completely ignoring a bloke at a bus stop on Saffron Lane right until the last second, and finally stopping about thirty yards past the stop to let him on. I know it's still dark, but it's not that dark.
I arrive at a very cold Leicester station at around 7.30. My travel companion has beaten me here and is currently avoiding eye contact with an often-pissed Leicester fan who is wandering about the station. Just before we go to the ticket machine, a man with a yellow and green scarf walks past. Helen suggests he might be a Norwich fan, but that doesn't sound right.
[How's this for annoying: I booked today's journey all at the same time, with the same card payment, yet I have three different booking reference numbers. This means I have to put my card into the machine, enter the first reference, wait for the tickets to print, then put my card back in, enter the next reference... For fuck's sake! It's a good thing we're not late.]
Our first train is to Sheffield, and it's nice and quiet. We notice a couple of other City fans are on the same train, but they get off at Derby. Helen leafs through FourFourTwo while I observe my surroundings. Not much going on really. This is disappointing. Where are all the nutcases? Something has to happen today, otherwise I'll feel cheated.
We arrive at Sheffield and go to the main entrance to survey the board. The Northern Rail service to Manchester Piccadilly is leaving at 9.14 - right on time. Arriving in the two-carriage, erm, 'train', we sit down near the man with a yellow and green scarf who's been with us since Leicester. Where's he going? I keep trying to think of clubs other than Norwich who play in similar colours, but there are none.
After a short while inside this tin can on rails, the ticket inspection woman approaches. She has a look at our tickets and informs us that the tickets we have are invalid. "What?"
"That's not a valid ticket. The fare from Sheffield to Manchester is £37 and you've only paid thirteen..."
"Why is it not a valid ticket?" I know for a definite fact that it is. For one thing, the email I had from Virgin Trains when I booked told me specifically to get on this train. In fact, I don't need any more than that. This is our train.
"I'll have to get in touch with my controller and see if he'll let you travel."
It's not really up to him, dear. This is a valid ticket. I paid for Leicester to Manchester, and that's where we're going. End of story.
She moves on to our yellow/green friend. "This isn't a valid ticket..."
"Yes it is. Someone at the station told me to get on this train, and I've still got the email from National Rail telling me to get this train." He gets his phone out and starts to open his emails.
"I'll have to get in touch with my controller..."
No, you're not listening. We all have valid tickets. We have all been told, in writing, to board this train at this stage of the journey. What are you not understanding about these facts?
On her next trip down the carriage she throws me a smile and says "I'll come back to you as soon as I can."
I feel like saying "Yes, that would be fantastic. The sooner you make us get off the train we've paid to be on the better." But I don't. That would just be impolite.
I pass the time by starting conversation with the yellow/green man. It turns out he's a Manchester United fan named Tom living in Leicester. His accent suggests he's an actual Manc, so it's understandable that he'd be a United fan. The scarf is a protest against the Glazer family. The colours are those worn by Newton Heath in the early days of the club, and the ones so thoughtlessly brought back as a third-choice kit back in the early 90s.
Despite being a United fan, Tom has a very realistic outlook on the game. He's a rarity amongst fans of that club in that he understands defeat and misery. Not to the extent that Leicester fans would, of course, but he does nonetheless.
Unmolested by the ticket witch for the rest of the journey, we get off our train just about on schedule. We have over an hour in Manchester, so this is the perfect opportunity to get some food. I lead Helen to the same cafe I visited on the way to Oldham last season. The food this time is slightly better, although the general atmosphere of the establishment is much the same - it's full of pretentious, twentysomething twats who seem to think they're in a posh restaurant, probably in Paris, when in fact they're in a decent but not great (and certainly not posh) cafe opposite the Arndale Centre, and half-dressed women who appear to be still out from last night.
On the platform, some men in West Ham United shirts wait for the train. I ask them where they're going.
"Burnley."
I remember where we are, and where the next train is going. "Should have been obvious really."
"We're West Ham fans."
That explains the West Ham shirts.
One inappropriate comment later, the conversation is finished. Thank fuck the train's here.
[I'm convinced cockneys think everyone loves them, probably for the same reason Scousers think everyone loves them too - because they're so fucking hilarious. They aren't.]
The train to Preston is packed. There's no room at all to sit down. Well, there is, but the only seats without people sitting on them are adjacent to twats who think their bag needs a seat to itself. Rather than getting into conversation with one of these cunts, we stand at the end of the carriage.
As the train comes towards Bolton, I notice that I'm developing an irrational dislike for a man sitting near the window. I know exactly what he's doing to cause this, but I don't know why any of this should make me dislike him. Is it that university-trained, neutral and obviously forced accent that he's using to talk to the woman he's travelling with? Is it the fact that he's talking slightly louder than is necessary in order to make sure that everyone in the carriage knows he's in a low-level management position? Could it even be the way he's drinking his coffee? Well, I have to be completely honest with you. It's all three, and about six hundred more reasons. Sometimes you can just tell from a distance that someone is a cunt. This is one of those times.
At Horwich Parkway, a large number of people alight. They'll be Bolton fans then. It must be pretty handy having the stadium within easy and quick walking distance of the station. Finally, after that exodus, we can sit down for a short while.
Preston station is an awkwardly laid out building, more so if your train departs a couple of minutes after you arrive. After hurrying to the platform at the other side of the station, we board our fourth train of the day to take us to Blackpool North.
Blackpool North is not the nearest station to Blackpool FC. That would be Blackpool South. But hardly any services go to Blackpool South, so here we are. Fortunately, it's only about half an hour's walk to the ground. Staying more or less faithful to the Multimap walking route, we arrive at Bloomfield Road a few minutes before the team coach pulls in. Backwards. For some reason.
There's something strange about visiting this ground. On three sides, there are what appear to be proper football stands (the North Stand, West Stand and the still-under-construction South Stand). And then there's the East Stand, which is just scaffolding with some seats on it. Guess which one the away fans are seated in.
[It's not as bad as last time. Two years ago, the South Stand wasn't there at all. It was just an abandoned building site. As a consequence, a cold day felt even colder as the wind howled in from that end of the stadium. By that stage my head was soaking wet, exacerbating the problem. Needless to say, my head was numb throughout that game.
One interesting note on the new stand. It looks like it's been simply glued to the existing West Stand. I hope they didn't use UHU, because it won't hold something that size.
Before I terminate these parentheses, there's one more thing before the game. A couple of regulars spot me sitting in the stands alongside Helen and mistake us for a couple. Quite how they've come to that conclusion is beyond me, but I have to say I'm somewhat flattered. Helen thinks it's infuriating.]
As soon as the game starts, I notice that Blackpool's goalkeeper, Matt Gilks, is wearing colours almost identical to the officials. Something for the referee to sort out at half time I expect. After just quarter of an hour, a long diagonal pass from the left boot of Martyn Waghorn successfully seeks out Dany N'Guessan, who powers forward and places the ball beyond Gilks for 1-0. An entertaining first half finishes with City in front.
[Since we arrived, about six people have slipped or fallen near us. One of them was a steward at pitchside, but the rest have been people slipping down the steps. I don't want to sound unsympathetic, but surely that many people aren't that stupid? If the steps are wet and slippy, don't fucking run down them because you'll fall over. Helen laughs every time someone slips - she thinks it's hilarious. She is, of course, correct.]
As the second half begins, I notice that the referee has not done anything about the kit clash. Idiot. I find myself entertained by the second half (and the additional people falling down the stairs, and Helen's obvious amusement) as much as the first.
The most obviously wrong decision I've seen in some time is made by the linesman on the far side. Waghorn, who is (and this is not exact, just a conservative estimate) seven miles offside, runs onto a ball from Lloyd Dyer. The flag stays down. Fortunately for Blackpool, Gilks collects the ball before any damage is done, but their fans are absolutely livid and quite rightly so. An utterly ludicrous piece of officiating.
[I find further amusement in the fact that this should happen against Blackpool, who have just signed the offside king DJ Campbell on loan. He's not eligible today of course, not that that makes any difference.]
About twelve minutes from the end, Matty Fryatt takes the ball down the right hand side and crosses into the box where Dyer, who has appeared out of nowhere, doubles the lead.
In the dying minutes, Scott Dobbie pulls a goal back for the home side. This will be a tense finish then. Moments later, Dany N'Guessan appears to commit a foul inside his own penalty area. My first thought is a panicky "what the hell is he doing?!?" But the ref doesn't give it. Not only is he not interested in pointing to the spot, he books Charlie Adam for diving. From here it looks like a push, but it's hard to tell.
The final whistle goes - City win away for the first time since October's trip to QPR. Fucking get in!
We leave the ground and walk in a big square before finding the main road we walked down to get here. On the way back we spot Frankie & Benny's and decide there's plenty of time to eat before our train leaves at 7.45. Inside, we are served by a Leicester fan. Brilliant.
As we walk into Blackpool North station at around 7.15, I spot a face I know. It's Alan, of whom (if you're a regular reader of this shit) you'll have already heard. He's got company this time - a man called Robert, who turns out to be his brother.
After we get on the train, Robert puts his foot in it by becoming at least the third person make the assumption that we're a couple. Helen is clearly very unhappy.
[I've no idea how to feel about this. Should I be offended?]
Robert leaves us before we arrive in Preston - he lives somewhere in Lancashire. As we alight at Preston station, we notice that we have a very short change time and things go a little blurry for a few moments during which I frantically search for the words 'Birmingham New Street' on one of the platforms. Common sense carries us to the appropriate train. Panic over.
[Much better than two years ago - the rail replacement bus from Blackpool to Preston was nine minutes late arriving, which meant I got inside the station just in time to see the New Street train depart. The next train was an hour and fifteen minutes away, and the station waiting rooms were freezing.]
Alan leaves us at Wolverhampton to catch the last train to London, and we carry on to New Street. On arrival, we look for a train going Leicesterwards. Nothing. I have a feeling I knew about this, but I can't remember the details.
[Back to two years ago - I arrived at New Street some fifteen minutes after the last service to Leicester had departed. The very helpful lady at the customer service desk spent twenty minutes on the phone to Cross Country Trains explaining why it was their fault I was stranded in Birmingham. They tried and tried to wriggle out of it, but to no avail - she was too good. The end result was a taxi ride back home, courtesy of Cross Country Trains. I paid £22 for my return ticket originally, and they forked out £60 for the taxi. Justice was served. Shame the rest of the day had been so fucking miserable.]
At the customer service desk, we learn that we need to get the Nuneaton train, and change there for a replacement bus service. Bastards.
[CC: All train companies.
I really hate replacement bus services. If I want to travel by bus, I'll pay cheap fucking bus rates. The reason I pay for your fucking overpriced tickets is so that I can travel quickly and in relative comfort, not so that you can shove me onto a shitty, dirty coach with a load of cunts and travel at 16 miles a bastard hour.]
Sure enough, the replacement bus service is full of cunts, including several drunk Leicester fans and some mouthy young women who spend the whole trip tunelessly singing shit rap songs. For fuck's sake.
[See? If this was a train, I could just fuck off into the next carriage. But no. You have to do some fucking engineering works or some other bollocks on fucking Saturday and make me travel with this collection of arseholes.
Fuck you.
Yours sincerely, BM.]
Back in Leicester, we enthusiastically leap into the nearest available taxi and start our journey home. It soon becomes clear that this is one of several insane taxi drivers in this city. He starts to talk animatedly and loudly about football, something it's clear he knows little about. After he drops Helen off, he reverses back into the main road, causing the driver behind to honk excessively. And it's now that he starts to drive like a loon. He slows down for nothing - not for corners, or traffic lights, or old women crossing, absolutely nothing at all. No sooner have I become convinced I'll die in this car than I can see my front door. I'll survive after all! And then I realise how tired I really am.
What a day - miles better than last time.
Final score: Blackpool 1 Leicester 2
Time: 17 hours exactly
Ticket: £24.50
Train: £25.50
Total: £50
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