It's the peanut thief!

February 23rd: Doncaster Rovers v Leicester City (Championship)

I'm back to travelling alone for tonight. Helen's gone back to Grimsby and is coming to the game with her parents. Don't worry though, we'll find some entertainment.

Half an hour after the coach leaves Nottingham, my phone rings.
"Blue Maniac? It's the peanut thief."
Silence. Comprehension. Resignation. An audible sigh. "Hello, Robbie. How are you?"
Ignores the question: "Where are you?"
"On a coach to Sheffield. Where are you?"
"I'm in the car with Bob." That explains how he got my number. Fucking hell, Bob, what are you thinking? "What time will you get to Donny?"
"About seven I expect."
"Ring me back when you get here."
"Done."
I think I'll save that number, just in case it happens again.

[Robbie's actually a good lad, but he's an utterly clueless cunt. Seriously. Just ask anyone who's ever met him. His understanding of pretty much everything is astonishingly inadequate. Oh, and he stole some peanuts once. Literally once. He's rapidly becoming one of my favourite people, purely because he's so entertaining.]

The coach arrives at Mansfield bus station, and one person gets off. The driver apparently hates Mansfield as much as I do, because he makes sure the doors slam as soon as they're off and hastily reverses out of the bay before anyone can blink. Good attitude to have, that - no point spending unnecessary seconds in the worst place on earth.

At Sheffield, there's time to use the interchange toilet (always surprisingly clean - Sheffield bus interchange is actually a pleasant place to splash one's boots) before I find the stand for the X78 to Doncaster. I pay my £3.50 and take a seat. This will take well over an hour, so it's a good thing I've brought reading material.

No sooner have I taken World Soccer out of my bag than my phone rings again. The words Peanut Thief flash up on the screen.

Audible sigh.

"Hello."
"Where are you?"
"Sheffield."
"Oh. Ok. When will you get to Donny?"
"About seven I expect."
"Ok. Ring me back when you get here."
I'll try to remember.

Now, I've done this bus trip before. It was not fun. The view is not breathtaking in daylight, so it's much better to do this trip while it's dark. Especially the bit where you go through Rotherham.

[It's at Rotherham that a girl of maybe 19 gets on. She spends her entire time on the bus mining her nose with a bony finger and inspecting whatever comes out. This prolonged bout of nosepicking is amazing to watch really. Fucking disgusting, but amazing nonetheless.]

Doncaster is a soul-destroying place, really. Or, it would be if Rotherham wasn't right next to it. All souls entering Doncaster via Rotherham have already been ruined by the excessive, wanton squalor on display. Doncaster's interchange isn't so bad, if you ignore the groups of little shits scattered all over it. It's easy to use and well-designed.

[It's a little sad that the nicest thing I can bring myself to say about Doncaster is that its bus station isn't confusing. Now I think of it, I'm pretty sure I have an ex-girlfriend who lives in Doncaster. So like I said, the best thing about Donny is the bus station.]

It's actually 7.15 when I arrive at the ground. I bring up Peanut Thief's number and make the call. It rings. The voice who answers is not Robbie. Instead, I get some tangential abuse (I think) which means absolutely nothing. I hang up.

[Now, I like Robbie, but seriously, why the fuck did Bob give this fucking idiot my phone number? What on earth was he thinking?]

You know the next bit, right? Okay, good.

I come out of the shop and make my way towards the away end. Once inside, I'm instructed by a steward to sit where I like. Good. In that case I'll find myself a seat near my Grimsby friends. Presumably they've been here at least an hour, because some of them like to watch certain players warm up.

City make a good start but only manage to score from a Doncaster corner. Chris Weale's long kick finds Martyn Waghorn, who muscles past a defender and bears down on Neil Sullivan's goal before putting the ball beyond him. Again, a haze descends and I have no fucking idea what happens next. Fortunately, when I return to my physical state I'm still more or less in the same place. Everything in my pockets, however, has been scattered around the adjacent rows. Five minutes later, I'm pretty sure I've managed to recover all my keys, change, chewing gum, underwear and so on.

A good first half performance by City and they go in 1-0 up. During the half, Bob fills one of the vacant seats next to me. Immediately he apologises for Robbie getting my phone number. "I gave him my phone and just told him to press the green button. That's all."
"Right. Where is he anyway?"
"No fuckin' idea."
Erm... what?

It's now been snowing for quite some time. The weather tonight is far worse than it was when some of us made the wasted trip back in December. So what are the chances of a late abandonment?

Well, none. In fact, no luck at all for Donny as strong defending and exceptional goalkeeping keep the home side frustrated for the rest of the game. City bag another three points.

At the final whistle, I follow Bob out of the ground. The hotel I'm in tonight was originally booked by him before he decided to drive up, so he knows where it is. Eventually, we find Robbie, who gives me his explanation for the earlier phone call.
"I didn't recognise the number."
"Er, you'd dialled it only a couple of hours before and asked me to call you."
"Yeah but it came up as a +44 number..."
"You're fucking joking, right?" Then I remember who I'm talking to.

After a mazy drive around Doncaster in search of food (no success) Bob heads towards the hotel and drops me off. Eventually I find my room and have a quick look. Despite chucking back two cups of coffee in rapid succession, I'm fucked. Time to sleep.

It's Wednesday morning. I check out and go looking for the nearby bus stop to take me back to the interchange. The one that arrives is crammed. Regardless, the driver opens his door and is happy to take my money. In fact, over the next few stops it transpires that he's under the impression that there's room for another five people.

[This bus is full of kids. Now, if there's one thing worse than standing on a packed bus it's standing on a packed bus while simultaneously surrounded by teenagers, especially when they're talking loudly, in northern, about how lippy they were to their teachers the day before. Yes, I understand, lots of people were little shits when they were teenagers, me included. That shouldn't mean I should have to ever meet any of today's teenagers now I'm paying taxes.]

There's very little time to wait before the X78 back to Sheffield is ready to go. This time it's only £3.20, for some reason. Remembering that pretty soon I'll be passing through Rotherham again, I get out a magazine and try to keep my eyes focused on the page for as much of the journey as possible. Success - the next time I look up is to see a couple of lads getting chucked off at Meadowhall.

Unnecessarily long trips home are always far more pleasant after a win, and even more so after a decent night's sleep. All things considered, it's been a successful couple of days.

Ticket: Already paid for (see here)
Coach: £15.90
Bus: £6.70
Hotel: £25
Total: £47.60