Bovril, please

March 6th: Sheffield Wednesday v Leicester City (Championship)

Missed call on my phone. Helen. I call back.
"The train's been cancelled."
"What?"
"The train we were supposed to get on has been cancelled. I'm getting the next one instead, it leaves in about five minutes."
I'm at least ten minutes away, so I guess that means we're on separate trains. And I bet that also means the one I end up on will be full. Fucking hell.

Actually, it turns out to be more than full. There's hardly room to breathe. In fact, someone's almost touching me. If there's one thing I despise, it's physical contact with strangers. Or people I know.

[Time to digress at a tangent.

Seriously, what's with all this physical contact between casual acquaintances? All this shaking hands and hugging bullshit? Shaking hands, for a start, is a massive hygiene no-no. Mine are clean. Why am I going to grip yours if you didn't wash them after you went for a piss, or if you've just sneezed in the fuckers? Well, I'm not. So fuck right off.

And hugging? With some people, fine. If you're particularly close to someone, there's nothing wrong with it. But I actually know people who hug fucking everyone they know every time they fucking see them. What kind of wilful cuntishness is this?]

After an excruciating hour and a quarter, full of encounters far too intimate for my liking (one woman even leaned on me at one stage. Fucking leaned on me!) I arrive in Sheffield. Helen and her mum are in The Globe, not far from the station. As I approach the door, a policeman standing outside tries to point me back down the street at the less attractive looking pub at the bottom.
"But my friends aren't in that pub."
"You'll have to get them out of here too. This pub's full of Bradford fans."

[So fucking what? What's Bradford got to do with anything?]

"Erm, no, they're eating."
This goes on for about a minute. I'm not getting anywhere. Despite the fact that several Bradford fans are outside talking to the (admittedly very friendly) officer, assuring him there's no problem. I make a phone call, after which Janice comes out, says about four words and manages to convince him to drop it.

[All that twatting about to get into a pub. Really. I know they've got a job to do and so on, but how unnecessary was that?]

Hillsborough isn't far away by bus, and before I know it I'm in the club shop pissing another six quid away on a poorly crafted mug. We walk round to the away end (which, obviously, is miles away from where we started) and are in our seats well before kick off, as usual.

We're barely beyond the five minute mark when Leon Clarke gets on the end of a free kick and smashes the ball past Chris Weale to give the Owls the lead. All 27 of the home fans go mental.

Half an hour in, Weale is forced to go off with a facial injury, to be replaced by Conrad Logan. Bugger.

At half time, I do something unusual: I go to get some food and a drink. Standing in 'line' I spot something a little interesting: fresh fruit bags available for £1.40, according to the board. A football club, in Yorkshire of all places, promoting healthy eating. Who'd have thought?

Four ice ages later, I get to the front. I ask the girl behind the counter what's in the fruit bags.
"W'int got froot bags."
I do a quick translation in my head. "No?"
"No."
"Did you run out or did you just never have any?"
Shrugs.
"Bovril, please."

On my return to my seat, Helen informs me that Nicky Adams has been dancing with the cheerleaders. Apparently one of them was giving him shit eye as he did so. Brilliant.

Quarter of an hour passes in the second half before Leon Clarke doubles his tally for the day with a close range finish. The points belong to the Owls.

[After eight games without defeat, you know it had to end some time. These things happen, no big deal.]

We end up standing on the bus back to the interchange. To my left are two blokes discussing the merits of various Wednesday players. To my right is a woman who grins at me for the whole journey. Not unsettling at all.

Back at the station, the ultra professional copper from earlier is jumping up and down like a chimp on amphetamines and Viagra. Wednesday fan then.

Further into the station, Janice manages to get herself into a heated conversation with a local jobsworth rozzer before we all go and get a much needed coffee.

Janice boards the train to Grimsby (Mansfield with lipstick on), and Helen and I wander off to find our train back to Leicester.

At around 7.45, back in Leicester, we part ways for another week. I'm off to buy some fruit - I've had one orange today, and that was first thing this morning.

[Is the sale of fruit and vegetables in Yorkshire banned or something?]

Plenty of time to consider today's events as I walk home. Nope, don't want to. iPod on.

Final score: Sheffield Wednesday 2 Leicester 0
Time: 10 hours 30 minutes
Ticket: £18
Train: £21.70
Bus: £3.20
Total: £42.90