March 24th: Leicester City v Reading (Championship)
Two home games in three days then. We're going to the Walkers on a Wednesday because the Coventry game was shoved back to Sunday, remember? Ok, now we're up to speed let's get walking.
The walk from work takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. I'm very hungry so I eat my snack as I find my way to a seat.
[A couple of notes from the team sheets. Firstly, Bruno Berner has apparently managed to injure himself in the warm-up and is being replaced by Ryan McGivern. Secondly, Reading's starting line-up includes one Gylfi Sigurdsson. This, you may or may not recall, is the bloke who was on loan at Crewe last season and who I called 'possibly the worst player in the division' at League One level. It turns out he's not that bad, because he's now an established first team player in a side chasing the Championship playoffs. He just had a horrible, horrible game that day.]
Sixteen minutes into the game, Jimmy Kebe is one-on-one with Chris Weale after a missed tackle by McGivern. Kebe rounds Weale and looks like he's taken it too wide. However, despite the presence of defenders, he manages to slot the ball under the keeper to put the Royals in front. Fuck.
[As he celebrates with team mates, I look at Kebe and can only think one thing: he looks ridiculous in green shorts.]
Five minutes before half time, Lloyd Dyer breaks down the left and crosses neatly to the head of Martyn Waghorn, who steers it past Adam Federici for the equaliser. Moments later, Dyer feeds Andy King in the middle but Federici bats his effort over the bar. The teams go in level at the break, which seems fair.
City look good in the second half with Paul Gallagher looking especially impressive. Reading's Andy Griffin, for some reason, gets into an altercation with Dyer, which results in several players pulling each other's shirts and so on.
[This is one thing about football that annoys me. The majority of these boys cannot fight, and even if they did they'd be sent off. So why square up to each other all the time?]
No goals appear to be on the horizon, though, despite a number of attacks at each end. But in injury time, Nolberto Solano clips Simon Church as he makes his way to goal. Only one outcome here: penalty. Sigurdsson (of course) slots the spot kick into the bottom corner to steal the points. Bollocks. Again.
The walk home always seems longer after a defeat.
Final score: Leicester 1 Reading 2
Linesmen are shit
March 21st: Leicester City v Coventry City (Championship)
This game's on the telly, which is why it's being played on a Sunday. Apparently the M69 derby is such a massive game that Sky feel the whole country needs to see it.
City manage to get on the scoresheet early when an Andy King strike from inside the box finds the far corner. On 19, a King header hits the underside of the bar and bounces on or around the line. Did it go in? Well, the assistant referee thinks so. That's all that counts. It's 2-0.
The lead remains at the break. This is good, we're half way there.
On 54, James McPake scores an admittedly very good goal to reduce City's lead. The second half sees Coventry control large segments of the game, and towards the end it gets tense. A couple of Cov efforts come close, and City manage to hold on until the 87th minute, when Gary Deegan nails the equaliser from close range. Given, despite Freddie Sears having been offside. Bollocks.
I don't want to talk about this any more.
Fuck off.
Final score: Leicester 2 Coventry 2
This game's on the telly, which is why it's being played on a Sunday. Apparently the M69 derby is such a massive game that Sky feel the whole country needs to see it.
City manage to get on the scoresheet early when an Andy King strike from inside the box finds the far corner. On 19, a King header hits the underside of the bar and bounces on or around the line. Did it go in? Well, the assistant referee thinks so. That's all that counts. It's 2-0.
The lead remains at the break. This is good, we're half way there.
On 54, James McPake scores an admittedly very good goal to reduce City's lead. The second half sees Coventry control large segments of the game, and towards the end it gets tense. A couple of Cov efforts come close, and City manage to hold on until the 87th minute, when Gary Deegan nails the equaliser from close range. Given, despite Freddie Sears having been offside. Bollocks.
I don't want to talk about this any more.
Fuck off.
Final score: Leicester 2 Coventry 2
What kind of name is Claude anyway?
March 16th: Crystal Palace v Leicester City (Championship)
As usual, Helen is at the station well before the train is due to leave. We're on the 14.57 train. During the trip, with nothing to read and nobody willing to talk to me, I decide to text Robbie (you remember: clueless fucker from the Doncaster trip). He claims he's nearly at the ground when I text him, which is about 4 o'clock. That's a bit early, considering the game kicks off at 8.
As we get off the train, I suddenly need the toilet quite urgently. I don't remember drinking a lot on the train, but all the same my bladder is about to explode. We make our way down the escalator towards the toilets (Helen also needs to go)... and the gents' is shut. Fuck and bollocks.
I try to forget about it (and almost succeed) as we take the tube to Victoria. Victoria is one of those stations that charges for toilet admission.
[No fucking chance. No matter how desperate I am to go, I refuse to pay any amount of money, however small, to piss in a dirty pot in a stinking room. I'll hold it in.]
We find the train to take us to Selhurst. It's a bit old and crap, and a little bit dirty. Fitting, really, considering we're going to an SE postcode. Another text and a phone call from Robbie confirms that he's in fact in a pub nowhere near the ground. How odd.
[It's not really odd. He's an utterly clueless cunt, and this is therefore no surprise.]
First things first upon arriving at Selhurst: we walk up to the ground. We're not going to stand and stare, though, because I'm still dying for a piss. Sainsbury's it is then.
We leave Sainsbury's and I go into the club shop to look for a mug. The only one I can find, though, is nine fucking quid. No chance.
Helen likes to get into the ground early, so of course we're inside well before kick off. By this time, we've realised that even though kick off is at 8pm, our tickets in fact say 7.45. We know this to be wrong. Why have they printed the tickets wrong? Idiots.
Claude Davis needs a smack in the gob. The only reason I say this is because of his unnecessarily brutal challenge on Andy King, for which he is rightly booked.
City dominate the first half but there's no breakthrough. A couple of minutes before the break, the referee goes to consult with one of his assistants, who has apparently seen something off the ball. Moments later he waves a red card in the direction of Davis. Straight red. Didn't even see what happened.
Over the next few minutes, we start to hear that Davis was dismissed for throwing an elbow at Michael Morrison.
[For the entire first half, the set of lads behind us have been asking fucking ludicrous questions and answering them wrongly amongst themselves. Helen has been correcting them every step of the way. Just so we're clear: that's a 20 year old woman who knows more about the game than a group of five lads. Think about that for a second.]
On 53, Lloyd Dyer crosses for Martyn Waghorn, whose shot is batted away by Palace keeper Julian Speroni, only for Bruno Berner to smack the ball into the back of the net. Get in.
City continue to dominate but there's no addition to the scoreline. No matter, a win is a win.
[Palace are in the process of finding out what happens when Paul Hart is manager. What is the thinking behind any chairman who even extends the courtesy of replying to his applications, let alone those who actually hire him?]
A surprisingly quiet train trip back to Victoria follows. I manage to stay awake for most of the coach trip home. Another three points well earned. Meanwhile, Palace are on their way to League One. Good job, boys.
Final score: Crystal Palace 0 Leicester 1
Time: 12 hours 30 minutes
Ticket: £25
Train: £9
Travelcard: £5.60
Coach: £5
Total: £44.60
As usual, Helen is at the station well before the train is due to leave. We're on the 14.57 train. During the trip, with nothing to read and nobody willing to talk to me, I decide to text Robbie (you remember: clueless fucker from the Doncaster trip). He claims he's nearly at the ground when I text him, which is about 4 o'clock. That's a bit early, considering the game kicks off at 8.
As we get off the train, I suddenly need the toilet quite urgently. I don't remember drinking a lot on the train, but all the same my bladder is about to explode. We make our way down the escalator towards the toilets (Helen also needs to go)... and the gents' is shut. Fuck and bollocks.
I try to forget about it (and almost succeed) as we take the tube to Victoria. Victoria is one of those stations that charges for toilet admission.
[No fucking chance. No matter how desperate I am to go, I refuse to pay any amount of money, however small, to piss in a dirty pot in a stinking room. I'll hold it in.]
We find the train to take us to Selhurst. It's a bit old and crap, and a little bit dirty. Fitting, really, considering we're going to an SE postcode. Another text and a phone call from Robbie confirms that he's in fact in a pub nowhere near the ground. How odd.
[It's not really odd. He's an utterly clueless cunt, and this is therefore no surprise.]
First things first upon arriving at Selhurst: we walk up to the ground. We're not going to stand and stare, though, because I'm still dying for a piss. Sainsbury's it is then.
We leave Sainsbury's and I go into the club shop to look for a mug. The only one I can find, though, is nine fucking quid. No chance.
Helen likes to get into the ground early, so of course we're inside well before kick off. By this time, we've realised that even though kick off is at 8pm, our tickets in fact say 7.45. We know this to be wrong. Why have they printed the tickets wrong? Idiots.
Claude Davis needs a smack in the gob. The only reason I say this is because of his unnecessarily brutal challenge on Andy King, for which he is rightly booked.
City dominate the first half but there's no breakthrough. A couple of minutes before the break, the referee goes to consult with one of his assistants, who has apparently seen something off the ball. Moments later he waves a red card in the direction of Davis. Straight red. Didn't even see what happened.
Over the next few minutes, we start to hear that Davis was dismissed for throwing an elbow at Michael Morrison.
[For the entire first half, the set of lads behind us have been asking fucking ludicrous questions and answering them wrongly amongst themselves. Helen has been correcting them every step of the way. Just so we're clear: that's a 20 year old woman who knows more about the game than a group of five lads. Think about that for a second.]
On 53, Lloyd Dyer crosses for Martyn Waghorn, whose shot is batted away by Palace keeper Julian Speroni, only for Bruno Berner to smack the ball into the back of the net. Get in.
City continue to dominate but there's no addition to the scoreline. No matter, a win is a win.
[Palace are in the process of finding out what happens when Paul Hart is manager. What is the thinking behind any chairman who even extends the courtesy of replying to his applications, let alone those who actually hire him?]
A surprisingly quiet train trip back to Victoria follows. I manage to stay awake for most of the coach trip home. Another three points well earned. Meanwhile, Palace are on their way to League One. Good job, boys.
Final score: Crystal Palace 0 Leicester 1
Time: 12 hours 30 minutes
Ticket: £25
Train: £9
Travelcard: £5.60
Coach: £5
Total: £44.60
Iwan is a Welshman
March 13th: Leicester City v Cardiff City (Championship)
I'm furious. The buses from Fosse Park are beyond a joke. From 2 o'clock I wait for a bus, and a city-bound one finally arrives at 2.24.
[Really, why the fuck would anyone use buses out of choice? They're slow, infrequent, unreliable, expensive, dirty and full of cunts. In fact, the bus I've just caught (Arriva's number 15 service from the city centre to Fosse Park) has been a real problem for me in the past. I used to live opposite Leicester station, and I worked at Meridian Business Park, and this was the only bus that went between the two. Every couple of weeks, without notice, this route would change completely. For example one week it would go up Hinckley Road, the next it would take the Narborough Road route, then two weeks later it would change back. I lost count of the number of times the stops in the city centre changed. For a while, it departed from the Clock Tower, but then suddenly and without warning, it was moved to the other end of High Street. Then, just as suddenly and without warning, it moved back. Now it goes from a stop I don't think I've ever seen. Its route through Thorpe Astley makes no fucking sense, and it won't surprise you to hear that this section of the route has changed fourteen thousand times as well. In short, whoever administers Arriva's bus routes in Leicester needs a sharp stick jabbing repeatedly and violently into their genitals.]
My second late arrival of the season then. As I take my seat, though, Ben assures me it's still 0-0 and I've missed nothing. Good. On 29 minutes, Martyn Waghorn tucks the ball into the far corner to give City an important win. Afterwards, it's straight home to get ready for an evening out. That's right - Blue Maniac is pretending to have a social life. Friends and everything.
Final score: Leicester 1 Cardiff 0
I'm furious. The buses from Fosse Park are beyond a joke. From 2 o'clock I wait for a bus, and a city-bound one finally arrives at 2.24.
[Really, why the fuck would anyone use buses out of choice? They're slow, infrequent, unreliable, expensive, dirty and full of cunts. In fact, the bus I've just caught (Arriva's number 15 service from the city centre to Fosse Park) has been a real problem for me in the past. I used to live opposite Leicester station, and I worked at Meridian Business Park, and this was the only bus that went between the two. Every couple of weeks, without notice, this route would change completely. For example one week it would go up Hinckley Road, the next it would take the Narborough Road route, then two weeks later it would change back. I lost count of the number of times the stops in the city centre changed. For a while, it departed from the Clock Tower, but then suddenly and without warning, it was moved to the other end of High Street. Then, just as suddenly and without warning, it moved back. Now it goes from a stop I don't think I've ever seen. Its route through Thorpe Astley makes no fucking sense, and it won't surprise you to hear that this section of the route has changed fourteen thousand times as well. In short, whoever administers Arriva's bus routes in Leicester needs a sharp stick jabbing repeatedly and violently into their genitals.]
My second late arrival of the season then. As I take my seat, though, Ben assures me it's still 0-0 and I've missed nothing. Good. On 29 minutes, Martyn Waghorn tucks the ball into the far corner to give City an important win. Afterwards, it's straight home to get ready for an evening out. That's right - Blue Maniac is pretending to have a social life. Friends and everything.
Final score: Leicester 1 Cardiff 0
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
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
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