The Search for Franck Rolling

Jimmy Kebe's shorts

2010-03-31T20:59:00.002+01:00

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

2010-03-31T20:58:00.003+01:00

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

What kind of name is Claude anyway?

2010-03-31T20:57:00.012+01:00

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

Iwan is a Welshman

2010-03-31T20:56:00.006+01:00

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

Bovril, please

2010-03-29T23:54:00.003+01:00

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

Do Foxes piss on Trees?

2010-02-28T23:33:00.003Z

February 27th: Leicester City v Nottingham Forest (Championship)

Time for revenge. That's the feeling. Forest deservedly hammered City back in December, and now it's time to pay them back. We just have to. These are the thoughts that have been dominant all week leading up to this game. Whether it's a good, hard, bare-arsed spanking or a 1-0 win from a late, dodgy penalty is irrelevant. As long as thousands of Forest fans go home as miserable as we did all those weeks ago, it'll be a good day. And if we lose? Well, that's just unthinkable. It can't happen, can it? Actually, being a Leicester fan, I'm all too aware that yes, it can happen. Almost certainly will happen. Not that I don't believe in the team, I just know what it's like being a Leicester fan. No. We'll win this. Definitely.

Before kick-off it's obvious that we've got close to a sell-out here. The atmosphere, obviously, is better than usual.

The first half is enjoyable enough but neither side manages to make the scoreboard twitch. At half time, the nerves are still there. Forty five minutes to do something. I'm back to thinking we can do them here.

City pick up some momentum in the early going of the second half, and in the 68th minute we see some good work by Richie Wellens and a ruthless finish from Bruno Berner to put City in front. The whole place, save for one corner, explodes. Magic.

Eleven minutes later, City get a free kick on the edge of the Trees' box, which Paul Gallagher neatly places in the far corner to double the lead. Once more, the whole house goes mental. We've barely had time to catch our breath when Andy King fires a Berner cross in for the third. Red shirts in the away end start to exit. Today is a good day.

Afterwards, I manage to drag Helen along for a drink with a few mates (namely Ben, his mate Mark, and Chris).

[I learn some interesting things over the next hour or so. Chris's girlfriend thinks he's an unfunny twat. Ben had his leg stitched up without anaesthetic because the doctor told him to 'man up'. Mark used to play table tennis for Redditch. All exciting stuff.]

Anyway, 3-0. How about that for payback?

Final score: Leicester 3 West Bridgford Trees 0

It's the peanut thief!

2010-02-28T23:32:00.002Z

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

Bagpipes and an abseiling mascot

2010-02-28T23:25:00.004Z

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

Frantic finish

2010-02-28T18:03:00.004Z

February 16th: Bristol City v Leicester City (Championship)

Excruciating. It's the only word to describe the bus trip from home to Fosse Park. At the front of the bus, three young mothers sit and talk. Nothing offensive there. However, at the back sits their gathered offspring. Now, I hate kids as a rule but one kid is never a problem. Seven, however, is a nightmare, even if you don't have to talk to them. To make things worse, one woman spends five minutes talking to the driver, which of course delays his departure from the stop, elongating my torture around these pint-sized future humans.

[Fuckwitted old sow. If you're spending more than ten seconds interacting with a bus driver, then catching a bus is clearly beyond your capabilities. Find a new mode of transport and stop annoying me.]

I meet Helen at Pizza Hut, where we have time to sit and eat before setting off down for Bristol. As we sit there, we agree we both hate kids. Wonderful.

As we hit the M69, a question rises in her head: What is Britain's shortest motorway? Well, I think the only way to find out for sure is to text Any Question Answered. Six minutes afterwards, we find out that the shortest motorway in the country is the A635(M) in Manchester. That was exciting.

As the journey goes on, we chat generally about a variety of subjects. I notice at one stage that on our tickets is the phrase 'Seats in this stand have no backs and some seats have an obscured view.' Now, hold on a moment. No back to the seat, and possibly an impaired view of the pitch? For twenty five quid? Sadly, any suggestion that it's some sort of joke would be silly - there's definitely £25 missing out of my bank account.

We come through heavy rain around the Evesham mark, but fortunately the weather improves before we arrive in Bristol. We find the football parking with little trouble, although talking to the young lady in the high-vis jacket (ostensibly there to give directions) is not so facile. Her instructions are something like "turn left just before this gate, follow it right round and [indecipherable gibberish]". We turn left. We follow it round. We try to make sense of what she said afterwards, to no avail. We end up near the goods-in door of the nearby warehouse. Not what we were looking for.

After a swift reversal, we decide that she must have said something to the effect of "turn left again and then [indecipherable gibberish]". But still there are no clues as to where we should park. Eventually, the gibberish-spouting young lady's colleague appears from a crack in the wall or something and tells us to park near said crack. I'm slightly dubious about parking so close to what appears to be a transdimensional portal from which people in high-vis jackets just emerge as if from nowhere, especially in the dark, but that's where we end up anyway.

We walk to the ground, around it, past it and back again before locating the club shop. I've become quite good at locating the mugs very quickly, and tonight is no exception. We walk back towards the door we came in, only to be told we can't get out that way. Good job they didn't tell us at the counter, we might have saved a few seconds there. Fuckers.

The gates open at 6.30. Ashton Gate is an interesting venue because you're presented immediately with the unusual experience of going from the 21st century (barcode readers for the turnstiles) to 1981 (shitty seats with no backs, for fuck's sake) within the space of a few moments. Helen tells me of a sign in the toilets that warns of a possible lack of water at busy times (presumably this means during games, which raises the question: why bother having taps in the first place?).

Clever girl that she is, Helen decides that we'll be sitting near the front so as to avoid sitting behind the supporting pillar near the front. Cleverer still, she makes sure she gets the seat directly in front of said pillar so that when she leans back on her backless seat, she can just rest on it.

The public address system crackles for a moment, and it's a few seconds before I realise that somebody is trying to convey a message of some sort. What that is, however, is utterly beyond me. I hope it's not important.

As you'll be aware, there's a new form of entertainment this season whereby player/coach Chris Powell takes a series of penalties against substitute goalkeeper Conrad Logan before every game. Unfortunately tonight, we have a jobsworth twat of a groundsman who approaches Powell before he can make his run-up and kicks the ball away from the spot as he converses with him about how damaging it is to a football pitch if you play football on it.

[Full marks to Logan for performing a series of dives, pretending to save penalties that weren't being taken, while all this was going on. Very funny.]

The game that follows is an even, fair and often fast-paced contest. Several chances go to waste for both sides in both halves - posts are hit, shots cleared off the line, close range saves are made. Late in the game, the home side throw a few attacks at the City box, but none of them are successful.

The electronic board goes up. Five minutes of injury time to be played. Edge of the seat stuff (yet people are still leaving). Moments after we enter time added on, disaster - David Clarkson's shot finds it way to the corner of Chris Weale's net.

Fucking fucking fucking shitting fucking shit. I don't fucking believe it.

From the restart, the ball is laid back to Michael Morrison. He gives it to Jack Hobbs, who lofts it upfield to substitute Yann Kermorgant. Yann heads it on for Lloyd Dyer, who at the second attempt manages to get his shot on target and past Dean Gerken. Yes!

Several lost moments later I look around and think "how did I get here?" I'm miles away from my seat, almost in the home fans. Helen is also some distance away in the opposite direction somehow.

City were worthy of the point tonight. To lose late would have been harsh. Good result.

Getting back out of the car park turns out to be far easier than finding it in the first place. Exiting Bristol easier still, and far more pleasurable - Bristol is just one giant council estate. How this fucking hole is even being considered to be part of a World Cup bid I will never understand.

Helen's football playlist is an acceptable form of background noise for the journey home. At one stage we even enter meaningful conversation, which for me is almost unheard of on a football day. Astounding really.

After what feels like just a few minutes, we part ways again just after midnight. This is a fun new way of doing things. Don't panic, though, if you're a fan of me getting stranded or lost in faraway locations in the dead of night - I'm almost certain it'll happen again. Sooner rather than later.

Final score: Bristol City 1 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 50 minutes
Ticket: £25
Helen's bribe: Ticket - £15
Total: £40

Gally hat trick!!!

2010-02-25T21:54:00.003Z

February 13th: Leicester City v Scunthorpe United (Championship)

Apparently there's some sort of promotion on today whereby some people can get cheap tickets by doing something or whatever. Anyway the end result is a handful of extra people have turned up.

[Handful - that's a strange word to use for people isn't it? I mean, a handful of grapes is what - ten, depending on the size of your hand? A handful of dry roasted peanuts is maybe twenty or thirty peanuts. A handful of people? Maybe an elbow, a chin or part of an arse. Certainly not an entire person.]

City get off to a quick start, with Michael Morrison heading in from a Martyn Waghorn free-kick. Ten minutes later, some good build-up play leads to a Paul Gallagher shot being deflected into the net. On 25, Gallagher gets his second with a neatly-placed free-kick. Less than half an hour in, it's 3-0. Cracking stuff. Now, I've mentioned before that I've never seen City score five in a competitive game. I mean, I've seen it on tv, but never while I've been in attendance. It's when this third goal goes in that I almost start to believe it'll happen. Almost.

On 34, Waghorn fires in City's fourth - surely it's only a matter of time now?

The second half is nine minutes old when Scunthorpe mount a rare attack and pull one back through Paul Hayes. Suddenly I'm thinking of the Peterborough v Cardiff game back in December. No, that won't happen here - let's put that thought our of our minds.

As the game progresses, the chances of a comeback get slimmer and slimmer. City quickly find their rhythm again and look the more dangerous side. So it proves when Gallagher's header from a Richie Wellens ball loops over Joe Murphy into the net. It's five. It's finally happened. Thank fuck for that.

[Seriously, I was getting to the stage where I literally believed it would never happen. Now it has, I'm happy. Now I can just enjoy myself.]

The walk home is so much more pleasant after such an emphatic win. Good day. Very good day.

Final score: Leicester 5 Scunthorpe 1

Catastrophe!

2010-02-25T21:38:00.003Z

February 9th: Leicester City v Doncaster Rovers (Championship)

There's something about Tuesday night games in February that I really like. For some reason it just feels right to be cold at football and walk home in the dark.

In this instance, I would love to be able to tell you something amazing about the game, but fuck me, I can't.

Fans are the usual bunch of twats tonight. After Brian Stock needlessly jumps into Matty Fryatt (breaking his jaw and necessitating seven minutes of on-field treatment), the Kop decides to boo Gareth Roberts every time he touches the ball. The logic of football fans, eh?

That's all I'm writing. Besides being in a bad mood for no good reason, I refuse to give any more space to such a tedious, uneventful game. If you want a match report, fuck off to the BBC website.

Final score: Leicester 0 Doncaster 0

Death by psychotic taxi driver

2010-02-13T08:20:00.005Z

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

Look who's on telly! Erm... again

2010-01-31T23:59:00.003Z

January 30th: Leicester City v Newcastle United (Championship)

Another unusual kick-off time today - 5.20pm. Of course, this is all Sky's bright idea. Sky are, oddly, a Newcastle United publicity vehicle. In fact, if you looked at all the coverage given to the club in any one week, you'd think they were Premiership champions. Despite not having won a single legitimate trophy since the dawn on time, Newcastle United are the biggest club on earth, bar none.

Half an hour into the game, Richie Wellens is sent off for a second bookable offence. Not what you need when you're up against the best side in the division. City hold out to half time though, still no score.

The break is made somewhat interesting by the appearance of one Frank Worthington on the pitch. Not that interesting, but more so than usual. Negligibly. Okay, not at all.

A sparkling second half display from City sees them claim a well-deserved point from a hard-fought game, during which I receive several messages telling me how one-eyed the Sky commentary is. According to one message, the only person in the Sky team not apparently willing Newcastle to win is Dion Dublin.

I take a detour to Morrison's after the game to pick up some food. During my shop, I hear a perplexing request come over the public address system: "Would all Newcastle supporters please leave the store." I wait for more, but nothing comes. Just that one bewildering sentence. I'm beyond bemused.

I take a leisurely stroll back home, sparing more than a passing thought for Newcastle fans making their way back home. Sometimes being at home isn't so bad.

Final score: Leicester 0 Newcastle 0

World class idiots

2010-01-31T21:00:00.000Z

January 26th: Barnsley v Leicester City (Championship)

Helen has insisted on a 4pm meet at Fosse Park so we can get straight onto the motorway. She wants to get to the ground early. And she also hates average speed check zones, especially when the speed limit is set at an arbitrary and unnecessarily low 50 miles per hour.

The first such zone feels about four hundred miles long, all done at about 14 miles a year due to the build-up of traffic that apparently lies in front of us. Why is this speed check zone in place? Nobody appears to be actually working here. Traffic cones do not equal roadworks. Towards the end of this zone, Helen shows me where her car was bounced off a barrier by a lorry a few months ago. And still, nobody doing a lick of work, except the bloke to our immediate left. He appears to be reading, writing and talking on the phone, all whilst driving at 45mph. Who said men can't multitask? The fucking idiot.

[Actually, this isn't too bad for me. You may have realised from the Cardiff trip that I actually enjoy spending time around Helen for a variety of reasons, the most important of them being that she's very good conversation. So few people are good at this - I often suspect that I am one of those who is not - that you learn to make the most of those who are, even if they do occasionally shoot you a look of pure hatred after you give them erroneous directions. Repeatedly.]

As soon as we come out, the traffic that presumably was somewhere ahead of us holding everyone up moments ago suddenly vanishes. What the fuck?

Further up the M1 there's another, much shorter, of these zones, but it doesn't last nearly as long. Eventually we find ourselves in Barnsley. I start to get that feeling - you know the one I mean - that one gets upon entering a vaguely familiar town. That idea that you kind of know where you're going but don't want to commit to anything in case you end up in totally the wrong place. That recollection of certain buildings, structures and streets. Suddenly we're in a car park. It looks extraordinarily familiar. I've been here before, on a previous away trip. I look over the town centre and try to remember what direction everything is in, but to no avail. Asking for directions is the only way out.

Precisely three seconds after the nearest Barnsley fan starts to talk, I experience an almost photographic recall of the plan of central Barnsley. I try to terminate the conversation early, but he keeps talking. I thank him, and start to leave, and he keeps talking. The words "oh shit" flash up in my mind over and over again as I politely attempt on several occasions to arrest this little interaction. This conversation is never going to finish. And he's not even saying anything!

[This is the exact opposite of what we were talking about earlier. Many, many people have such little aptitude for conversation that they can talk for absolutely months without actually saying a fucking thing. Read back through this blog, you'll understand perfectly.]

I lead my sidekick (faultlessly and without hesitation, if I may say - photographic recall was indeed accurate) up to the stadium. I've never been to the club shop here, but I know it's not in the away end (obviously) so I turn right instead of left. After the mug is purchased, we make our way to the other end and decide to get into seats early. Not for the first time this season (or the last, I'm sure), seating will be unreserved. Before we can sit, though, Helen needs food. She picks from the menu something apparently called a pizza pod, or some fucking thing, and forks out £2.70 for what is essentially pastry, cheese and tomato. Whatever it is, more than half of it never gets eaten.

The match itself is not what you'd describe as a thriller, but not an awful game either. During the entire game, the two blokes behind us shout abuse at everyone from Ryan McGivern (who isn't playing!) to Paul Gallagher (who is, sort of) to Nigel Pearson (again). I'm almost sure that football fans used to taunt and abuse opposing players.

In the 77th minute, Roberto Colace scores the only goal of the game to give Barnsley their first win over City since March 1994. In fact, his goal is the first they've scored against Leicester since December 1995. Now there's some useless information.

Having endured some utterly nonsensical and baseless opinions throughout the game, we applaud the team off to the sound of whingeing.

As we leave the stadium, a bloke in a Leicester shirt walks alongside us. He offers his opinion. And when I say 'offers', I of course mean 'forces upon us without invitation': "Absolute shite!" He takes his blue shirt off and pretends to throw it into the road. "Rubbish!" he shouts at some unfixed point to his left.
I've now lost all my patience. "Don't fucking come then! If you don't enjoy watching the team, fuck off somewhere else!"

Apparently uncomfortable with this interjection, he speeds up his flight from the stadium area. Good, fuck off.

We get back to the car park and after just the one wrong turn we're back on the motorway going south. Normally on coaches I'm itching to fall asleep from the moment I sit in my seat. Not in this car; I don't think I could sleep while Helen's available for conversation. I'm happy with that. Less so with tonight's result.

Another away defeat. Bollocks.

Final score: Barnsley 1 Leicester 0
Time: 8 hours 37 minutes
Ticket: £20
Petrol money: £17.37
Total: £37.37

Joe Allen in his boxers

2010-01-31T19:23:00.000Z

January 23rd: Cardiff City v Leicester City (FA Cup fourth round)

Now here's a novelty: I'll be in a car today. No getting up at 3am to go in the wrong direction today. Helen will be expecting me to arrive at 10am so we can be in Cardiff in plenty of time. No problem.

Ten minutes late, I knock the front window of the student house and within a few moments a flustered and slightly annoyed-looking sidekick opens the door. I'm not that late am I?

A card sits in the front seat, and on it are directions to street parking near to the stadium. Wonderful, nothing can possibly go wrong. We arrive at Sainsbury's for petrol. It seems that my paying for the tickets is sufficient payment for a lift to the game. So essentially, this lift has cost me fifteen quid. Seems fair. Better than fair, actually.

As Helen goes inside, I observe the car in front. It's been there since before we arrived, and the owner wasn't there. The owner still isn't there. Helen comes back, and the owner still isn't there. We wait. And wait. And wait. I go to get out, with the intention of finding out who, if anyone, owns the car blocking our exit, but the look on my travel companion's face tells me this is unwise if I don't intend to walk to South Wales. Finally, the woman who owns the Audi TT returns. So she hasn't abandoned it then.

Soon our trip is properly under way. Most of the time, I'm happy to travel in silence, or at least concentrating on something else, but there's something different when travelling with Helen. You see, the difference between her and most people is that she can be interesting for a number of hours. During our trip along stretches of varying lengths of five different motorways, we have a series of involved discussions about a variety of topics, mostly under the general heading of football. Helen also happens to be one of the most informed people I know when it comes to football. This makes me comfortable. What makes me less comfortable, however, is her description of a recent dream. I won't go into great detail, but I'll say that Swansea's Joe Allen wearing just his boxers is the least disturbing part of it.

Eventually (and via a couple of unnecessary diversions - let's just leave it at that) we find the free street parking near to the ground. After coffee and food, we enter the ground shortly after 2pm. The away end has an odd, unfinished look to it. I look up and see that the exit signs have two words on them. Presumably the one underneath, which looks like a sequence of arbitrarily chosen letters (perhaps Scrabble tiles drawn from the bag), is the Welsh for exit. So here's a question: what for? Think about it. Who, other than a tiny percentage of Swansea fans, is going to come in the away end and look for the Welsh translation of the exit sign? Who is going to look at a sign saying 'EXIT' next to a big arrow and think 'I wish that was in Welsh, then I'd know why that sign is pointing at the massive door over there'? What possible function do these bilingual signs serve?

Unreserved seating is the order of the day, so we find a pair on the end of a row about halfway up. A glance around the stadium only serves to increase the feeling that the structure isn't finished. Is it finished? Have they actually arrived at the planned construction, or did they just get so far and think 'fuck it, that'll do'? Questions whose answers I frankly don't care about.

Seventeen minutes into the game, Michael Chopra crosses from the right and Jay Bothroyd's head meets it in the box to put the home side in front. No less than we deserve really, we're still not out of the blocks yet.

City get their act together and about ten minutes before half time a Paul Gallagher free kick is headed on and past David Marshall by Michael Morrison for the equaliser. Five minutes after that, Dany N'Guessan powers through to make it 2-1. The game's been turned on its head.

Only twenty minutes remain when Peter Whittingham scores directly from a free kick on the right side of the pitch, and the time seems to just vanish from there. At 2-2, it seems a replay is on the cards (although, mercifully, this one will be at home). But then, two minutes into injury time Chris Burke smashes a loose ball through the penalty box to put Cardiff in round five. It seems, however, there's time to add gloss to the scoreline, as Ross McCormack finishes from close range. That's the cup out the way for another year then.

On the way back home, it takes us some time to get out of Cardiff and, despite the directions, we find our way back to familiar roads and eventually back to civilisation. I finally walk through the front door a little after 8pm - much earlier than I would've done coming by coach.

[I know some may be disappointed by the simplicity of my journey today, but here's a little story for you. A frustrated Leicester fan called me on Thursday to have a general moan about the poor choice of public transport options for getting to Cardiff. A train was out of the question because it was far too expensive. Places on Fox Travel, the official supporters' coaches, were sold out. By now you can probably tell what he ended up doing: he was up at the crack of dawn getting a coach to London, and arrived back in Leicester some time after 2am. Fucking loon.]

Final score: Cardiff 4 Leicester 2
Time: 10 hours 15 minutes
Ticket: £20
Sidekick ticket: £15
Total: £35

League debut

2010-01-23T08:44:00.008Z

January 16th: Swansea City v Leicester City (Championship)

I switch Maniac Junior's bedroom light on. The clock says 3am.
"Time to get up, we have to go."
"Mm? Watimisit?"
"3 o'clock. Taxi will be here soon."
She nods. I go downstairs and get myself ready. Within ten minutes, she's at the bottom of the stairs, bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead, with her various bags clinging to different appendages. One look at her tells me I may have made a serious error of judgment bringing her along today - she's more awake than I am.

The taxi ride is a welcome change for someone used to walking this part of the trip. It seems unreasonable to make Maniac Jr walk that sort of distance at three on a Saturday morning. The coach arrives on time, just, and as I take my seat I start to look forward to catching up on my sleep. I know, just know, she won't allow that. Sure enough, the moment I drop off... "Dad!" I'm startled awake. Her enunciation of the word 'Dad' is such that it sounds like she's panicking all the time.
"Yes?"
"The lights outside are really bright."
"Hmm." I consider the sentence. "What?"
"I can't get to sleep. Can I shut the curtain?"
"No, the end of the curtain is all the way over there and closing it means disturbing other sleeping passengers."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh. It was you who picked this seat, remember?"

So back to sleep... "Dad!"
"Yes?"
"Can I have something to eat?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's 5am."
"Oh. Can I have my milkshake?"
"Go for it."

We get to Northampton. I point to some seats opposite. From there, she'll be able to reach the nearby curtain and block out the lights that are apparently keeping her awake. So we switch, and she brings her trio of bags with her. The curtain is pulled across. I wait. And eventually, she goes to sleep.

At feeding time in London, Maniac Jr opts for a croissant with jam. Before you ask, I don't know where she got that idea from. I'm not worried that it won't carry her through the day though - she's got a bag full of food somewhere.

We wait for the coach, and she spies a clock on the electronic screen at the gate. "Sixteen minutes."
"Hmm." Another thought, apparently apropos of nothing, to consider. "What?"
"It's 8.44. Sixteen minutes."
Of course. "Thanks."
She grins.

"Fifteen minutes."
"Right."
Grins.

"Fourteen minutes."
I'm sensing a pattern here.
"Thirteen minutes."
"You're aware, are you not, that I can also see the clock? I'm standing literally inches from you."
Grins. Point made methinks.

"Twelve minutes."
I nod in agreement. I wonder, not for the first time, how long this day is going to be.

Half an hour after the coach leaves Victoria, I start to drift off to sleep again. So of course, the next thing I know...
"Dad!"
In lieu of words, I just look at her.
"Can I have some crisps?"
"You've just had breakfast."

Maniac Jr buries her head in a book for the journey as far as Cardiff, but that doesn't stop her waking me up every so often to ask an inane question. This represents perhaps the longest three hours of my entire life.

We get off at Cardiff and as we have over half an hour before the train to Swansea, we go in search of a sports shop. The cumbersome array of bags, rucksacks and lunch boxes previously strapped to Maniac Jr is now consolidated into one large, cheap rucksack. Much easier.

The train to Swansea takes just short of an hour, leaving us two hours before kick-off. Plenty of time to walk it. Following directions from a police officer, we walk up High Street. It becomes very clear very quickly that this particular part of Swansea is best described as 'squalid'. In the first few minutes of our walk, several people made futile attempts to intimidate the interloper. Quite frankly they can fuck off.

[Seriously, what sort of absolute cunt tries to start something with a bloke while he's obviously out with his daughter for the day? Wankers. This month's FourFourTwo contains a letter from a Swansea fan, presumably written with tears welling up in his eyes, about the unfair and unjustified apprehension and police presences they are met with in other towns. Well this is why: because such a large percentage of your fans (and I hate to be so blunt about it) are cunts.]

As we walk, I notice two signs that directly contradict each other. Good start. Neath Road sounds familiar, though, so we walk down it for a while and eventually the stadium comes into view. After a quick diversion to the club shop, we meet up with some other lunatics before finding the away end.

Inside, I find myself disappointed. See, the thing about Swansea's new ground is it's exactly the fucking same as every other 'new' ground, just with different colour seats. Bigger than some, smaller than others, but essentially the same shape as more or less every ground built in the last fifteen years. I'm a bit bored of going to grounds that look identical to dozens of others, but I don't suppose there's much we can do about it. It's progress after all.

After beating the same side in the FA Cup two weeks ago, we just have to lose the league game. It's just how things work sometimes. And so it proves, the only goal of the game scored from close range by Gorka Pintado.

[There's one thing worth mentioning here. During the game, the bloke two to my left makes several comments that just need to be known by a wider audience. I hope you enjoy the following:

During the first half - "If he thinks this team's good enough we want to change the manager."
Shortly after a pointless whinge about Andy King - "Why's he not started Wellens?"
During the second half - "Sort it out Pearson. You fuckin' idiot!"
When Wellens strips off ready to come on - "Why not bring N'Guessan on? He's got two winners against these already!"
A couple of minutes later, when Pearson apparently changes his mind and brings on N'Guessan for Lloyd Dyer - "No! You fuckin' IDIOT!"

Now this is what annoys me. This bloke here is a perfect example of someone who disagrees with everything the manager does, even when it's precisely what he was demanding seconds ago. This sort of 'fan' would not be missed if they all disappeared up their own arses.]

Right outside the exit sits the bus back to the station. Bob gets on too, and we converse on the way back. After a short while, the bus comes to a stop in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. The words 'broken down' float towards the back of the bus. Suddenly the lights go out completely. We're sat in pitch black. The two police officers at the front oversee half the passengers transferring to the bus in front before the lights miraculously come back on again and the bus starts working. Shortest breakdown ever.

Bob manages to talk himself onto the early train, alongside a mutual friend who shall remain nameless, at least for now. It turns out Robbie (that didn't last long, did it?) hasn't bought a ticket all the way back to his local station somewhere in Warwickshire. For reasons he never reveals, he wants to know whether this train stops in Didcot. It does not. When we get off again at Cardiff, I'm still wondering where the hell he's going to end up spending the night.

Back in Cardiff, Maniac Jr and I have just shy of an hour to grab some food. We find a takeaway round the corner called Wok to Walk (which, by the way, I would recommend visiting if you're ever in Cardiff) and both decide on chicken and egg noodles. After my first few bites, it occurs to me that I've never knowingly eaten bean sprouts. It seems I've missed out.

We finish our food in classy fashion - with plastic forks while sitting in a bus shelter. Moments after we finish, the coach back to London pulls up. Not five minutes after we start moving - and I wish I was exaggerating here, but I'm not - Maniac Jr asks if she can make a start on the pasta salad she's brought with her. Now, bear in mind, she's just eaten a massive box of chicken, noodles and veg. She demolishes half the pasta salad very quickly and with no difficulty whatsoever.

As the coach reaches Cardiff University, I notice the driver is talking on his phone. It seems there's a problem with the demisters on his window, or something. When we arrive in Newport, we wait. Someone meets the coach and appears to fix the problem. I fall asleep as the coach pulls away.

"Dad!"
Awake, again. "Yes?"
"Can I have..."
"How can you be hungry?"
Shrugs.
"I don't think there's any more food left." I notice we've stopped. We appear to be at some services on the M4. "What are we doing here?"
Shrugs. Brilliant.

The driver is on his phone again. I hear the words 'breakdown' and 'replacement coach', followed shortly by 'forty-five minutes'. I also ascertain that we're not far outside Newport. Some quick calculations send me into panic - we're not going to be back at Victoria for 11.30, when our coach back to Leicester leaves. This is a problem. I go up and speak to the driver and ask him whether he thinks we'll be back by then. He doubts it. The phone rings, and he has another conversation with someone in an office somewhere. He tells them our situation. After he hangs up, I'm informed the 440 will be held for us until we arrive. Problem solved.

It's 11.48 when we finally arrive at Victoria - an hour and 33 minutes behind schedule - and we're met off the coach by an officious-looking and severely-dressed woman. "Come on, the coach is waiting for you," she says in an impatient tone. Does it look like it's my fucking fault? Cow.

I finally get some uninterrupted sleep on the way back to Leicester (it feels like my first in days) and we roll off the coach and into a taxi.

This has been a very long day. Bed beckons.

We hardly ever win in Wales. Let's hope Bristol City win on Tuesday.

Final score: Swansea 1 Leicester 0
Time: 23 hours 55 minutes
Ticket: £25
Coach: £20
Train: £6.50
Total: £51.50
Extra cost of taking a small person: £10 + £20 + £3.25 + an unfathomable amount on food

Limited tickets!

2010-01-23T08:08:00.004Z

January 12th: Leicester City v Liverpool (FA Youth Cup third round)

This should be a nice distraction after work, and should be entertaining too - City's academy haven't lost a game all season. Just as I arrive, I see a little poster in the ticket office window for the Newcastle game. LIMITED TICKETS AVAILABLE it tells us. Well, yes, obviously. The number of tickets available for any game is limited by the number of seats in the stadium.

We (Helen, her housemate, and me) find our seats. I go to talk to a nearby steward who is handing team sheets to anyone who asks.
"Can I have two copies?"
"I've only got so many."
Well, yes, obviously. I didn't think you had infinite team sheets. Besides, these are low-grade photocopies, surely you can make some more. Apparently not.

Less than ten minutes after the game starts, City are 2-0 down after a couple of very good attacking moves by the Liverpool boys, both finished by Lauri Dalla Valle. A couple of good chances fall to Adi Yussuf but he hits the woodwork twice. Quickfire goals from Tom Ince and Dalla Valle (again) make it 4-0 on 34 minutes. Looks like this undefeated streak is going out the window in spectacular fashion, although it's not really been a one-sided game. Despite the scoreline, City have been on top for decent periods; the only difference is the finishing.

The instant the half-time whistle blows, there is audible booing from some sections of the crowd. At an ACADEMY GAME!

[For fuck's sake. Some of these part-time fans really are cunts. They turn up to the odd home game, usually the ones that are cheaper because they've collected some fucking coupons out of the fucking paper, and demand to be entertained with goal after goal after goal, and boo the team off if they're not leading 5-0 at half time. They can fuck right off.]

Shortly after the hour mark, City left-back Ben Milne hits the post from long range. A few minutes later, though, Jorrin John crosses for Yussuf, who finally gets City on the scoresheet. Late on, however, Michael Ngoo restores the four-goal cushion to complete the scoring.

In spite of what the scoreboard says, City's youngsters have done a decent job tonight. Well, maybe Robert Ambrusics could have had a better night. He's got a long time to get it right though, and at least he's better than Rab Douglas.

Final score: Leicester 1 Liverpool 5
Ticket: Free

How tedious

2010-01-14T18:42:00.004Z

January 10th: Leicester City v Ipswich Town (Championship)

Yes, it's a Sunday. This game was originally scheduled for yesterday, but was shifted at the start of the season to avoid clashing with Leicester Tigers' game against Wasps. If you're interested, the home side won. Or lost. I forget. In addition, owing to the fact that all the other games that were meant to be played today have been postponed, Sky have made the last-minute decision to televise this game.

I walk into the ground four minutes before kick-off. Four minutes and a handful of seconds afterwards, City's defence collapses and Ipswich are in front. Good start. How long gone, 20 seconds? Maybe, at a stretch, 30? I neglect to do the obvious thing and look at the scoreboard, probably because I'm too stunned to take in what's actually happened.

Ipswich soon make it clear they've come here not to lose, and despite their lead they stick resolutely to that gameplan. But one wayward deflection falls kindly for Steve Howard, who places the ball into Adam Lee-Barrett's net.

Half time is the usual 'some shit happening on the pitch', and is ignored. Second half is mind-numbing, I won't bore you with that. Another point, time to go home.

Final score: Leicester 1 Ipswich 1

Don't make me go to Wales

2010-01-07T22:18:00.002Z

January 2nd: Leicester City v Swansea City (FA Cup third round)

These days, £15 seems like a lot of money for an FA Cup ticket. The FA Cup is still a special competition, no doubt, but it seems to lack the attraction and a lot of the romance that once existed and made it the greatest club competition in the world.

Today, Helen and I are low down behind the goal at the Kop end. This allows her to take all the pictures she wants of whatever it is she's taking pictures of. I arrive during the players' warm-up. Each of Yann Kermorgant's shots - every single last one of them - hits someone sitting in the Kop. Chris Powell, not for the first time, scores a penalty past Conrad Logan. And then another one, and another one. Good to see an aged defender repeatedly make our substitute goalie look a complete twat.

As it turns out, the game isn't all that bad. Just before the ten minute mark, Welsh international David Cotterill hits an impressive long-range strike beyond Chris Weale, giving rise to ecstatic celebration in the away end. It's not as good a noise as they made when they went in front at the beginning of the season, but it's not bad. On 39, Matty Fryatt sets up Andy King to smash in the equaliser. Half time arrives and 1-1 seems a fair score.

At the start of the second half, I start to worry about the possibility of a draw. I'm having horrible visions of an extra trip to Wales, probably on a fucking Wednesday night, to see a replay. Would I need two days off work? Almost certainly, yes. Shit. How much will it cost to get there at such short notice? Too much. Plus probably another fifteen quid for a ticket. No, sorry, a draw is out of the question.

As if hearing the panic going on in my head, in the 89th minute Dany N'Guessan receives a header from Kermorgant and plants one of his own past Dorus de Vries. YES! No extra trip to Wales! Minutes later, the final whistle blows and City go through to round four. An away draw please.

Final score: Leicester 2 Swansea 1
Ticket: £15

What's the point?

2009-12-31T12:53:00.003Z

December 28th: Doncaster Rovers v Leicester City (Championship)

Doncaster is one of those places you only go to if you really have to.

[Like Birkenhead or Chesterfield or Mansfield or Leeds or south London or Bradford or Boston or Nottingham or Caboolture, Queensland or Dartford or Blackpool or Llandudno. Or Worksop.]

I leave the house a couple of minutes past seven and start my walk. The plan today is to get the 7.55 coach up to Sheffield, then get the X78 bus from there to Doncaster. That process turns out to be relatively trouble-free - no loons, no delays, no breakdowns, nothing. Just a comfortable-ish coach ride followed by a walk of a few yards to get the Donny bus. Today's going swimmingly.

As the bus shuffles along through Sheffield, stopping at Meadowhall, I observe the people walking past, getting on, going about their business. What a pleasant day! It feels like nothing could possibly go wrong.

The bus continues through South Yorkshire and enters Rotherham.

[Or Rotherham.]

I look out at the scenery. There's a freezer by the side of the road, lying on its side with its lid open. Underdressed 16-year-olds herd their ugly, unclean offspring towards some location that almost certainly sells either Lambert & Butler or Sunny Delight. The bus pushes on towards the interchange, and not slowly either. Presumably the driver hates Rotherham too.

The X78 arrives at Rotherham interchange to unload passengers. I remain on the bus, seated. My phone rings - it's Helen. No! NO! If this is what I think it is...
"Hello."
"Turn around."
FUCKING SHITTY FUCK!
I feel like crying.

[The problem here is that Doncaster's brand spanking new stadium doesn't even have undersoil heating. So of course, the frozen pitch was always going to remain frozen. Now can anybody tell me, what was the fucking point of Donny Rovers leaving their old Belle Vue ground if the new stadium wasn't going to have the basic mod cons? Undersoil heating should be mandatory for all clubs in the top two divisions at least. The fact that it isn't is the Football League's failure. Still, I can't decide which is worse: not having undersoil heating, or having it and not switching it on.]

I decide to press on to Doncaster - anything to avoid getting off at Rotherham - and see if I can find some alternative entertainment. Once at Donny Interchange, I decide to see if there's a non-league game nearby I can get to. Before I can do anything, though, I run into Alan again. He starts to talk about the best way to get to the ground, and I just shake my head. It seems the news hasn't travelled that fast. On hearing the news, Alan is livid, and understandably so - there's been no news of a pitch inspection, not on any radio station at least.

[Doncaster did a similar thing to Leeds and their fans in February 2008. See here for the story.]

A quick trip back to the railway station is in order to find out when the next Hull Trains service to King's Cross departs. Afterwards, we go and get some food and a copy of the Non League Paper before looking around the town centre for somewhere that shows Sky Sports. A quick look in the NLP tells me there's nothing within reasonable travelling distance below the Football League. We eventually happen upon a betting shop, where we discover that Sheffield United v Preston (too expensive) and Bradford v Shrewsbury (too far away) have both survived, whereas Chesterfield v Rotherham is off (I wouldn't have gone to it, even if it had somehow been played in my front garden).

After he goes off back to London on the 13.37 service, I decide to make my way back to Sheffield. On my way back through the interchange, no fewer than four people tell me the game is off. I just nod: "Yeah, I'm going home." I'm not, but it's easier and quicker than saying "Yeah, I'm going to wander around Sheffield for several hours, possibly find something to do and possibly not, before going home."

Eventually the X78 gets back to Sheffield (via Rotherham again - what an awful place that really is). There are worse places to be when you're pissed off than Sheffield. It doesn't take long to find the Arundel Gate Odeon, and the decision is made.

[This new Sherlock Holmes film is not terrible, by the way. Robert Downey Jr is of course marvellous, and Mark Strong is obviously talented. Even Jude Law is bearable. The whole flick, though, smells faintly of Guy Ritchie. If you're familiar with his work, you'll know what I mean. If you're not, lucky you.]

I get back to the bus station some 45 minutes before my coach is due. I take a seat in the waiting room, which is very well heated. When a young American man - Dwayne from the Miami area - walks in, I discover I've been sitting perfectly still for 20 minutes. For the next half hour, I talk to Dwayne about sports both British and American, baseball caps for some reason, his new life in Nottingham (never mind) and tattoos - he has several. He seems an interesting chap.

The coach arrives on time and it's time for some sleep before retreating back to the warmth. Another trip to another shithole and again I've seen no football. Fucking clowns.

Final score: Match postponed
Time: 14 hours 40 minutes
Ticket: £23
Coach: £10.90
Bus: £4.50
Total: £38.40

I wish Sky would piss off

2009-12-31T11:39:00.003Z

December 26th: Leicester City v Sheffield United (Championship)

Yet again our football calendar has been subject to meddling from Sky TV, which means today's game is now a 6pm kick-off. I mean really, who the hell thought it'd be appropriate or convenient to kick off at 6pm?

Sheffield United are one of those sides I just cannot sympathise with. It only goes back as far as when Colin Wanker was their manager, but boy was he a cunt. It's not so deep a dislike now, but I still don't like seeing them win. Except against Coventry, obviously.

The early stages of the game give very little away, with both sides intent on going forward. City's defence looks a touch shaky to start with, but gets its act together before anything bad happens.

On 25 minutes, Michael Morrison - the central defender - shoots from at least 30 yards. The shot is tipped over the bar by Mark Bunn (subject of a very simple yet very offensive chant from the City fans earlier in the season - but he earned it). From the resulting corner, nobody seems particularly interested until the ball reaches Morrison's head, and by then it's too late for United - City lead 1-0.

Less than ten minutes later, Matty Fryatt trips over Nick Montgomery's foot as he dribbles across the United box. Darren Deadman immediately points to the spot. Fryatt goes bottom right corner, Bunn goes the wrong way. 2-0. Shortly before the break, Richie Wellens hits a half-volley from 25 yards, which rattles the bar.

At half time, it appears there's a young lady on the pitch. She's warbling, so it's fortunate I've got my iPod charged up.

The second half begins with the news that Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) has been withdrawn. His replacement is Luke O'Neill, a teenage right-back. As the team lines up, it becomes clear that O'Neill, making his third senior appearance, is playing at left-back. Ryan McGivern, a left-back, has been moved to the centre. So now our back four is Robbie Neilson and three kids, two of whom are out of position. For United, Henri Camara is on for Andy Taylor.

60 seconds into the second half, Morrison momentarily joins Neilson in being asleep, allowing Camara to poke the ball under Chris Weale. Almost immediately after the changes, in other words, the advantage is halved.

As the second half goes on, both sides go on the offensive. As City go forward, Dyer is constantly in several square miles of empty space. As the Blades attack, O'Neill is repeatedly turned inside out at left-back. As it happens, though, neither side adds to their tally and City play out a solid 2-1 win.

Another note from today before I finish up: Cardiff got their game against Plymouth on after they miraculously managed to switch on their undersoil heating. And lost 1-0. Fucking good.

Final score: Leicester 2 Sheffield United 1

Kirismass!

2009-12-24T19:31:00.007Z

December 19th: Cardiff City v Leicester City (Championship)

Please note: there is no Welsh translation for the following, because firstly Welsh isn't a real language, and secondly because anyone who speaks it also understands English, so it would be pointless beyond measure.

First things first. Leicester City Football Club took £26 out of my bank account two weeks ago to pay for my ticket for this game. It was allegedly sent out on Friday, December 4th, by post. This is how my tickets always arrive. Bob, who lives in Kent, received his ticket the next day. Paul and Janice, who live in Cleethorpes, received theirs early the following week. I, who live less than a mile and a half from the ticket office, have received nothing. Because of this, I've had to phone the club and get them to order up a duplicate of my ticket for me to collect from the Cardiff ticket office.

[During my call to the ticket office, I also discovered that they simply haven't bothered to even process my ticket for the December 28th game at Doncaster. No reason given, they just haven't fucking bothered.]

Late on Friday night, I receive a two-word text message. It simply says "Pitch inspection." Seems a little odd, Cardiff have a new stadium (imaginatively named the Cardiff City Stadium). Undeterred, I'm up at 2.30 and manage to get out of the house for 3.06am. I walk in a pretty leisurely way down to the coach station and arrive a couple of minutes before the departure time of 4.25.

A saving of almost £25 has been made possible today by the usual diversion to London. A 7am arrival gives me plenty of time for breakfast before my 9.30 coach to Cardiff. I have my usual wander, gather a few things for the journey, and make my way back. As I sit waiting, I talk briefly to a girl called Matilda (really) before hearing the announcement that, due to extreme weather conditions in Calais, all Eurolines services have been cancelled. That's unfortunate.

The coach doesn't get far before I'm asleep. During my slumber, I receive a couple of text messages and apparently one voicemail. As I wake up to notice the coach is rolling into Newport bus station, I read the messages. They tell me nothing. Instead of listening to the voicemail (in my experience, they're almost always a short recording of people saying something like "bloody answer phone" in the distance before hanging up) I text Helen. I immediately receive a phone call from her. It begins with her saying "Tell me you know." No, I don't know anything. I'm getting a horrible feeling I'm about to, though.
"It was called off at 11."
Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitshitshitfuck. Shit. FUCK.

[Right, time to have a fucking moan. Cardiff's stadium opened several months ago. It is a new stadium. It has got undersoil heating. So what possible excuse has the club got for a league fixture being postponed because of a frozen pitch? I'll tell you what excuses they've got: fuck all none, that's what. Ridsdale is going to be getting an invoice for £28 from me. The twat.]

There's nothing I can do at this point - I'm booked on the 7pm coach back to London, and it'll cost me to change it - so I decide to carry on to Cardiff and try to get something out of the day.

I step off the bus and start to walk. I make my way towards the main road that ultimately leads to the stadium. I've not been off the bus five minutes at this point. As I start down Penarth Road, a voice comes from my left: "Y'okay?" I look for the source of the sound and find a small man walking a few feet over, grinning. Before I can reply, he shouts "Have a good day!" There's a hint of an African accent of some sort in there. Somehow, this adds to the surreal nature of the moment. He walks ahead a little, then starts to sing: "Ki-rismass! Whoa-oh-oh! Whoa-oh-oh-oh!" Turns back. Grins. Fucks off.

[Peter Ridsdale really is a cunt. He played a massive part in Leeds' downfall, being responsible for an amazing amount of debt (well over £100 million) being loaded onto the club, the sales of players he promised would never be sold (Ferdinand, Woodgate etc), and assorted outright lies to fans, managers and players. He then somehow became chairman of Barnsley, a club he rapidly took to the brink of liquidation, before he again resurfaced at Cardiff. Is it a coincidence that the Bluebirds now owe more than £30 million? No, of course it fucking isn't. In addition to this, in May 2009 his consultancy firm (that's a fucking laugh isn't it?) WH Sports went bust owing £410,000, £374,000 of which to HM Revenue & Customs. Given that Ridsdale appears to have displayed utter and total ineptitude in every management post he's ever held, how he keeps popping up in positions of responsibility is a complete mystery.]

I walk to the ground and have a look around the club shop (fuck all any good in there) and then make my way back to the city centre. On my way back, several apologetic Cardiff fans strike up conversation. I don't know why they're all apologising - it's the amateurs running their club who've fucked it up, not them.

A variety of rumours appear to be circulating. One is that the club haven't paid their contractors, who are required to turn the undersoil heating on. Another is that the system isn't connected up because they can't afford all the parts. Yet another suggests a gas bill has gone unpaid. Whichever one (if any) is right, it's nowhere near good enough for a club which purports to have Premier League ambitions.

Eventually I find Cineworld, and opt to sit down in front of Law Abiding Citizen, which turns out not to be terrible. That's my movie review for the week. What were you expecting, Dilys fucking Powell? Piss off.

Back at the bus station, I talk to Mary for a few minutes before the bus arrives. Then Bob appears. He's stayed on the same coach as well then. As we pull away, the driver does the usual safety announcements in his best Max Boyce accent, much to the bemusement of the Cardiff fan sitting behind me.

Most of the trip is spent asleep, and before I'm fully awake Bob has waved and gone - his train leaves in a matter of minutes. Eventually I rise and make my way towards the outside world. With over an hour to kill, I decide now is a good time to eat. However, during the next 30 minutes walking up and down Buckingham Palace Road looking for food establishments charging anything near what their wares are actually worth, I find a grand total of none fitting that description. Something I do encounter hundreds of, though, is what we in this country call 'inconsiderate twats': the sort of people who see you walking in a straight line and make it their business to stand directly in the way of said line; the sort of people who congregate in large groups outside restaurant doorways; the sort of fucking arseholes who blow smoke right in your face as you walk past, as if you're not there. Fuckers.

I go back to the coach station in an even worse mood than before. Not only have I been on the move since 3am, but I've not eaten since lunchtime. It is now 11pm. Just as I'm muttering a series of swearwords to myself, something appears to lighten up my day. A man and an older woman (possibly his mother) approach the crowd of people at bay 18 (which includes me). He is clutching in his right hand a couple of carrier bags from the O2 Arena, which appear crammed with souvenirs from whatever event he's attended there today. A look at his t-shirt tells us what that event was. Make sure you're sitting down when you read this, please. Comfortable? Okay. Standing in front of me, boys and girls, is a man easily in his late 30s, wearing a Miley Cyrus t-shirt. His bags are stuffed with Miley tat. We have the world's most inappropriate Miley Cyrus fan. And that is enough to cheer me up for part of my coach trip home, but after I step off in Leicester and embark on another long walk the realisation hits home: I haven't actually seen any fucking football.

Final score: Match postponed
Time: 24 hours 49 minutes
Ticket: £26
Coach: £28
Total: £54

Back to basics

2009-12-18T17:58:00.004Z

December 12th: Leicester City v Sheffield Wednesday (Championship)

A lot of people seem to be expecting City to lose today. I don't know why, Wednesday are terrible. As bad as we've been the last two games, Wednesday are worse. Still, our last two home games against the Owls have seen them score seven goals (1-4 and 1-3), so perhaps it's not so crazy.

Sitting in the southesast corner, as I often do, means I often get to listen to Helen's theories about personal relationships within the team. She's not a psychologist, you understand - just a harmless loon. Perhaps the funniest (and, surprisingly, most believable) conclusion she's arrived at is that Andy King and Michael Morrison are in a relationship. The clues, apparently, are there.

After a brief diversion to the club shop (as a favour to someone else), I make my way up to the aforementioned area. In the early moments of the game, City take control and create some nice looking attacking moves. Only eight minutes have passed when Matty Fryatt hooks a cross towards Steve Howard, who smashes a header into the net behind Lee Grant. On 25, Andy King finishes from close range to double the lead. Given the way the Owls are playing, them getting so much as a draw seems far-fetched, even at this early stage.

On 36, Wednesday boss Brian Laws brings on Tom Soares and Michael Gray for Jermaine Johnson (their best player so far) and Darren Potter. The visiting fans in the northeast corner can be heard shouting "You don't know what you're doing". A lot of those not chanting this are booing. This is not a nice time for them, their team or their manager. I don't envy them one bit.

It's the 73rd minute when Andy King's neat strike puts the game well beyond a very poor Wednesday side. Towards the end of the game, their fans cheer every off-target shot their team manage. At one point, a cross into the City box finds Marcus Tudgay, who succeeds only in clearing it. This is very poor opposition.

No longer will I be reminded of freak 4-1 defeats when I think of the Owls. Roll on next Saturday.

Final score: Leicester 3 Sheffield Wednesday 0

Fantastic!

2009-12-12T10:26:00.004Z

December 8th: Leicester City v Bristol City (Championship)

I stop off in town on the way home from work to pick up a few things, and while I'm out shopping I receive a call. The young lady on the other end of the line introduces herself and informs me that she's calling from Fantastic Telecom. This is a company I've never heard of, but nonetheless I allow her to elaborate. It seems this call is a follow up from when I had a spare ten minutes (at work) and filled in the Football League Survey. I know this because she spends the first few minutes of the call talking about tonight's game. Football chatter isn't her strong point.

Eventually she starts to outline the phone and internet deal she's been tasked with offering me. It's cheaper than what I'm paying now, certainly, but it's not for me. As the call ends, my mind goes back to something she said: "Ten per cent of your bill goes directly to the Leicester City academy." Yeah, that's a fucking charity isn't it? What a load of cock that idea really is. As if I don't spend enough money on this club already, I've now got phone companies asking me to donate part of my phone bill to the football club to aid their youth system, so they can help other people become rich at my further expense. No, sorry, that idea is beyond terrible.

I go home, wash and change, then come straight back out again to walk down to the stadium. I'm hoping that tonight we can forget about last weekend. Saturday was a freak, an anomaly. I arrive in plenty of time and talk to the usuals for a short while, then sit numbly watching the rain fall. Last Saturday is still in my head.

[Here's something from the abnormally long list of things that have always bugged me: people referring to one or other Bristol-based football club simply as 'Bristol'. It doesn't seem to make any difference whether the club in question is City or Rovers; both clubs' rightful suffixes are far too often ignored. Do we refer to Sheffield Wednesday simply as 'Sheffield'? No. Do we call the Premier League champions 'Manchester'? No. So fucking stop it. Two Football League clubs reside in Bristol, one is Rovers and the other is City. If you don't make sure I know which one you're talking about, my eyes will quickly glaze over and you'll soon be talking to an empty husk. There, rant over.]

The first quarter of an hour passes, and something's not right. I feel as if I'm just waiting for it to happen. Just waiting... And there it is. Ivan Sproule's dribble into the box beats Ryan McGivern, Richie Wellens, Andy King and Wayne Brown before a neat finish puts the Robins in front. After a bit of weak resistance from City, the visitors' lead is doubled when Cole Skuse lets one fly from 30 yards or more. Half time comes, and we're in exactly the same position we were at the same point at Forest.

At half time, Alan Birchenall etc.

The second half sees further wasted chances, one substitution (for anyone who's interested, Matty Fryatt in place of Dany N'Guessan), and little else until the 76th minute. An attacking move breaks down and the visitors break quickly. Skuse moves the ball rapidly up the pitch as Evander Sno makes an incredible run to his left. At exactly the right time, Skuse releases the ball to Sno and the big Dutchman nails it past Chris Weale at the near post. 3-0 down. Hundreds head for the exits.

Four minutes later, Martyn Waghorn's brainless challenge on Jamie McAllister earns him a red card. Even more people head for the door. That tops off a really great night, doesn't it? Not only are the team getting stuffed but they're also losing their discipline.

Late in injury time, Fryatt runs onto a long hoof from Weale and places a shot into the far corner of Dean Gerken's goal for an entirely pointless 'consolation' goal. I use inverted commas for 'consolation' because the goal is, of course, nothing of the sort.

Time to go. One win in five since the QPR game, yet I'm still not all that worried. At least it's better than two years ago.

Final score: Leicester 1 Bristol City 3

Reds, blues, Nazis and Commies

2009-12-07T21:40:00.005Z

December 5th: Nottingham Forest v Leicester City (Championship)

Fucking National Express. For a variety of reasons, I had to change my booking for today. When I did so on the phone, I wasn't given quite all the information that I needed. To cut a long story short, Helen and I have missed our coach, which means we're now walking at a good pace to catch a train.

We arrive at 10.30, with the next train expected at 10.45. In the event, it's a little earlier than that but of course it's full of other fans, which subtracts from the experience massively. Fortunately, the trip to Nottingham isn't that long, and when we arrive we go in the opposite direction to the others to avoid any unnecessary police escort (such as the one that ludicrously accompanied Derby fans to the Walkers Stadium some weeks back) that might be lurking around the corner. We needn't have worried, because it seems the police aren't as bothered about this game as we thought they might have been.

[Incidentally, there are three other events going on in Nottingham today that will require significant police presence. Trouble making pretend anarchists Unite Against Fascism and reactionary racist twats the English Defence League both have demos arranged, and there's also a military parade in the city. Yeah, can't see anything going wrong there.]

We walk down towards the two neighbouring stadia, and not long before we reach Meadow Lane, home of Notts County, I decide this is a perfect opportunity to boost my mug collection. Inside the Magpies' club shop, I discover one of the more obscure pieces of football merchandise: an official Notts County Football Club, erm, tape measure. After that stop, it's on to the City Ground just the other side of the river (and, confusingly, not in the city) to purchase another mug.

[Here's something that's always bothered me. Nottingham Forest are actually not in Nottingham; their ground is actually in West Bridgford. At the same time, Notts County are in the city of Nottingham, yet represent the county. I don't know why this bothers me, it just does.]

After an absurdly long time queueing to pay for my second drinking vessel of the day, I emerge from possibly the most badly-designed club shop in all of the Football League and find Helen outside. Time to go in.

Eventually we find the right entrance and make our way to our seats. I wouldn't say I dislike sitting as low down as the third row, but I do fucking hate it. Make of that what you will. I watch as the seats around us fill up, some with people I recognise, a lot more with people I don't. The countdown to kick-off is almost over, yet many, many seats are still empty.

To go through the events of the game in detail would, I fear, cause me to become suicidal. Besides, that's not what you're here for is it? So instead, I'll just say this: Forest score five times. City score once.

[I hardly ever criticise any part of the team here, but this needs saying: Today, almost every player in a blue shirt was considerably substandard. The entire back four in particular need to have serious words with themselves.]

We walk back to the Broadmarsh shopping centre and find somewhere to drink coffee before making our way outside to the bus station. We reach the stand from which all the National Express coaches leave, and we talk as we wait. Ten minutes later, I notice that the previous coach, which was standing at the exit when we arrived, is still standing in the exact same spot. So I watch as we wait. And still nothing happens. And still nothing. And then, all of a sudden, nothing. Just when I'm about to resign myself to never getting out of Nottingham - a fate worse than having an escaped mental patient let loose on your genitals with a pair of tweezers - about a dozen police vans make a beeline for a single street. My first thought is that those EDL cunts have kicked off somewhere, but then I realise I don't care. Some minutes later, things start moving again, and a short time after that the 230 - not our coach - arrives and the driver lets us on anyway.

As I arrive home at 6.20, my mind starts asking questions of itself. Will they make up for it on Tuesday? (Fuck knows.) What on earth was going on with those substitutions? (Fuck knows. Again.) Why the fuck did Wayne Brown play against such a pacey front line? (For a third time, fuck knows.) And how much of the Football League Show will I be able to watch before turning it off in despair? (In the event, 37 minutes.)

Final score: West Bridgford Trees 5 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 48 minutes
Ticket: £30 (That's right - thirty fucking quid!)
Coach: £4.40
Total: £34.40

Doncaster's that way

2009-12-01T22:28:00.005Z

November 28th: Scunthorpe United v Leicester City (Championship)

It's getting to that time of year again: when everywhere you go is freezing; when you can see your breath; when two pairs of socks still isn't enough to prevent your toes becoming oddly-shaped ice cubes.

So it is this morning that I woke up and just did not want to get out of bed. But today, there are things to do. Today is our first away game in 29 days, and my route was worked out weeks ago. Leaving the house at 8.20, I take the bus into the city centre and walk from Pocklington's Walk down to - sit down for this - catch a train. Yes, boys and girls, the cheapest way I could find to get to Scunthorpe within a reasonable time frame involves catching no fewer than four trains. That's about two more than I'd prefer to catch in a single season, but it's entirely necessary.

The first - to Peterborough - is due to leave at 9.15, so when I arrive at just before 9am, there's plenty of time to get my ticket printed and freeze my extremities off while standing on the platform for ten minutes. Soon, the Stansted train appears.

The seat I pick is far enough away from other passengers that I can read in peace. Until Melton Mowbray, that is, when a man gets on with two young sons and sits directly opposite me. Not a problem in itself, until I realise they're going to spend their entire journey to Stamford sneezing in my general direction. As they get off, a woman and her daughter get on. They're going shopping in Peterborough. Rebecca, the daughter, has to do some Christmas shopping. One of the things she has to buy is a Secret Santa gift for someone in her class. Spending limit is a quid. How pointless is that?

Upon arrival in Peterborough, I check the time and discover that I have about an hour to kill, so I start to wander up towards the shopping centre. As I pass a group of Middlesbrough fans, one of them asks me for directions to the College Arms. I look at him a little confused and shrug, then one of his travel companions points out that the blue shirt I'm wearing is in fact not a Peterborough shirt. This minor error turns out to be a source of amusement for his mates for several seconds.

I stroll around for a while before coming to the not-at-all-surprising conclusion that there is fuck all to do in Peterborough. So I go back to the station (which has an incomprehensibly tiny concourse) and wait it out until the 11.27 train arrives.

I manage to ignore everything around me for the duration of the journey to Doncaster, and at 12.20 or thereabouts I follow the signs to the bus interchange. Here I meet an old boy waiting for the same bus as me - the 909. He yaps on for a few minutes about timetables or some fucking thing, before Danielle sits down to my right, allowing my attention to shift naturally. Danielle, it turns out, is very friendly. She's also late for work, and increasingly agitated by the lateness of the bus.

After she departs a few stops later, I stick my face in a magazine until the bus pulls up at the Tesco opposite Glanford Park. Over the next half hour I have conversations with numerous regulars before making the now very familiar walk towards the away end. I say 'familiar' because Scunthorpe is by now one of those places I'm heartily sick of coming to. I fucking hate this town, it is a rogue dangleberry on the anus that is north east Lincolnshire.

One funny moment before kick off is Keith calling out the names on the back of people's shirts and waving as they turn round. Made me laugh anyway.

Within three minutes of the start of the game, Martyn Waghorn controls the ball on his chest before outpacing the nearest defender and poking the ball past Joe Murphy (who, as Leicester fans always delight in reminding him, lost in the 2000 Worthington Cup final as a Tranmere player. Ha!). The first half is almost entirely controlled by City, yet no further goals materialise.

Half time, some shit happens as per usual.

Second half is very similar to the first, Scunthorpe are barely even in this game. City aren't as dominant in this period but look safe enough right up until the third minute of injury time, when Jack Hobbs slips on his arse and the ball ends up with Martyn Woolford, who smashes his shot through the box and into the far corner - 1-1. Just like that.

Ten minutes after the game finishes, I reach Tesco. I've decided to grab some shopping so I can cook some late dinner when I get back home. At the checkout, I decide to go to the shortest queue. I should have known better really, and ten minutes later I'm still standing there waiting for some woman to pay with vouchers and her debit card for some fucking plants or something.

The next checkout along is by now empty, and as an added bonus the girl on it is a bit thick and gives me an extra quid change. I finally get back to the bus stop at 5.24, just in time to catch some blokes asking a Megabus driver when the next Stagecoach-operated service is due. Surely they realise that that's not how it works? As I stand there minding my own business, three Scunthorpe knobheads appear. They ask how I'm getting home (so I explain: bus to Donny, then two trains), then their tone changes and they start mouthing off about how they deserved a point, and how City weren't in the game in the second half. Feeling in an argumentative mood, I ask "What fucking game were you watching?" Apparently surprised to be challenged, they decline to answer the question and piss off to Tesco. Good, fuck off.

At this point, a bus arrives and all but one other person at the bus stop gets on. The one remaining person, Amy, has just finished her second shift serving burgers at the ground. She is not a football fan. We chat for a short while, then a bus back to the town centre arrives. The three Scunthorpe twats from before walk past and insist that this is my bus. In no mood for twattery, I reply "no, it's not, I've just told you I'm going to Doncaster." Then to Amy: "Thick cunts." She laughs, but I'm completely serious.

The 909 arrives, and almost all the way back into Donny I'm the only passenger. Just after the bus passes the Keepmoat Stadium, Danielle gets on again. That's a pleasant surprise.

At Doncaster station, I see a face I half expected - Alan, who we've come across before this season on more than one occasion. It seems we're on the same train, the 19.14 service. He, of course, is going all the way to King's Cross, whereas I'll be off at Peterborough to get the 20.52 back to Leicester. As the train rolls up, we manage to find a quiet place away from other travelling football fans (noisy fuckers, this is why I hate train travel on match days). Nothing exciting happens on this leg of the journey either. Alan eats an overpriced sandwich and drinks an overpriced coffee, and gives me his spare egg custard. And that's it.

I decide not to do too much wandering while waiting in Peterborough, and instead just stand, and wait, and watch people. I see a couple at the other side of the concourse, and a thought occurs: why on earth would a woman wear such a low-cut top when it is so cold? These thoughts disappear entirely when a girl of about 17 walks through the station with half her arse showing. Now that's got to be cold.

Back in Leicester, I decide to get the bus home. I take a seat at the bus stop, and at first the girl already waiting there seems harmless. As you probably expect, I start a conversation; she tells me her name, which I immediately forget, and that she's from Manchester or somewhere equally horrible, and so on. About two minutes later, her boyfriend and his mate arrive. They're shitfaced. Completely arseholed. Not unfriendly, but very very pissed. You know the type of drunk who assumes you need every word shouting from a distance of about one sixteenth of an inch? Well, I've got two of them. This ordeal lasts about four minutes, until my bus arrives. Finally.

I hate train travel. I hate talking to drunks. I hate going to Scunthorpe. Most of all, though, I hate watching Leicester drop points. Bastards.

Final score: Scunthorpe 1 Leicester 1
Time: 14 hours 12 minutes
Ticket: £18
Train: £25
Bus: £5.50
Total: £48.50

Don't go there

2009-11-27T18:48:00.003Z

November 21st: Leicester City v Plymouth Argyle (Championship)

It's good to be back to normal. Last week, with no game I gave the remotest toss about taking place*, I decided to take a short trip to Northern Ireland - one of my favourite places to visit. In fact, I'd wager that Northern Ireland is a favourite of most people who have been there. Unfortunately, however, I made the decision to spend the weekend in Londonderry, a place which is sure to sully anyone's experience of the island. Londonderry (or Derry, if you prefer) is the Mansfield of Northern Ireland. That's all it deserves to have said of it.

[*I wouldn't give two shits about England v Brazil if it was played in my back garden; imagine how much I care about this friendly fixture being played in Doha.]

Anyway, to the morning of the first game back after the international break. I spend most of it wondering on several things. Why did Thierry Henry turn his back on fair play? Why did FIFA suddenly decide at such a late stage that the World Cup playoffs would be seeded? Is it the word 'fuck' or 'off' that that bingo-pushing bell end Mukesh doesn't understand?

The game itself is pretty much as one would have expected it to be - all exciting, attacking play from the home side, all ground-standing and time-wasting from the visitors. The only surprising thing is the lack of a goal in the first half.

At half time, it seems Birch has gone completely senile - he seems even more out of sync with his surroundings than usual.

The second half is slightly calmer but along the same lines as the first, but even as the clock touches ninety there's still no breakthrough. Even then, I say to the woman next to me that there's a goal in this. Sometimes you just know. Sure enough, late in injury time City get a corner on the right, Dany N'Guessan's blocked shot rebounds to Andy King, who prods the winner into Romain Larrieu's net. A previously tense home crowd bursts into ecstatic celebration - another three points clinched, and deservedly so, but the boys cut it very fine this time.

On my way home, a couple of other questions come to mind: When exactly did we become the team who scores late goals rather than the team who concedes them? And when will Mukesh get the message and fuck off?

Final score: Leicester 1 Plymouth 0

3,209 Dr Seuss characters

2009-11-11T20:53:00.004Z

November 7th: Leicester City v West Bromwich Albion (Championship)

Not long ago, I wrote this:

"Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all."

This sentence repeats over and over in my head as the bastard behind the wheel of the 88 chugs along Saffron Lane at an average speed I work out to be 5.04 miles per hour (1.68 miles in 20 minutes), finally dropping me 100 yards or so from the Aylestone Road junction at about 2.55pm. So allow me to repeat: Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all.

Despite this twattery, a fast walk gets me inside the stadium and within sight of the pitch almost exactly on kick-off.

The first West Brom goal comes on 37, via a deflected Graeme Dorrans free-kick that trickles into the far corner. This is of course followed up by one of football's more annoying noises: Baggies fans doing that fucking stupid "boing boing" shit. A couple of minutes later, they have the chance to do it again when Gonzalo Jara smacks in an awkward strike from 25 yards. In the intervening period, City have lost Matt Oakley to injury. Almost immediately after the goal, Ryan McGivern replaces Andy King, who has apparently already gone off (not that you'd know).

Half time, two down and two players subbed already. It'll not be a good day it seems.

Deep in injury time, Bruno Berner hits the net from a rebounded free-kick, but it's far too late to change the destination of any points now. Still, three home defeats in 18 months isn't too bad is it?

Morrison's, bus, home, kick some doors and tables, eat, sleep. Done.

Fucking Boing Boing. Twats.

Final score: Leicester 1 West Brom 2

I finally bought a new shirt

2009-11-02T19:17:00.006Z

October 30th: Queens Park Rangers v Leicester City (Championship)

Another evening game means another half-day at work. Arriving in the city centre by bus at around 1pm, I decide I've got time for a small diversion: a visit to the club shop to do some shopping. I take another bus down to the ground and purchase a home shirt, a t-shirt and, yes, a mug. I depart, get to the bus stop and catch a bus back into town, take another detour into Boots, and finally arrive at the bus station around two to meet Helen (fka the disastrously-named Mistress Sparkle - see Coventry away, October 3rd). Twenty minutes later (and ten minutes late), the 440 to London pulls to a stop in one of the bays and far too many people crowd round in front of it. Clearly all these people will not fit on, and soon we discover that there are in fact to be two coaches for this service - one which will stop at Milton Keynes and Golders Green, and one which will go direct. The mere mention of the words 'Milton Keynes' makes this a no-brainer: the direct coach is the one for us.

We get on and immediately find ourselves narrowly avoiding injury when the fuckwitted coach driver lunges forward toward the back of the coach in front, stopping abruptly about two inches from an embarrassing smash. Everyone on board is launched forward in their seats, but nobody is damaged. The fucking idiot.

During a trip lasting just over two hours, I manage to get about an hour's sleep (catch-up from last night) and get some reading done. We arrive in London just before five and find ourselves at White City station (via Notting Hill Gate) at about six. A ten minute walk later, I've grabbed a mug from the shelves of the club shop. Before I can pay, however, something catches the eye. It's called 1882. QPR aftershave. Seriously. Presumably it makes you smell like Gerry Francis.

We stand around outside the away entrance for what feels like an eternity before the gates finally open at 6.30. With nothing better to do, we go straight in after being subjected to a rather brutal bag search. In the concourse, we see a bar. I don't drink, and Helen only wants coffee, so we ask if there's anything non-alcoholic available. "No", comes the short answer. Marvellous.

We sit in our seats and converse and watch people around us drink coffee and other things we were assured were not available just minutes ago. I watch and listen with interest as familiar faces and voices start to appear around me. Strange how there's always a core of people you can rely on to be at (almost) every game. Even if some do get hoofed out early.

Kick-off time arrives and the game... does not begin. Fucking Sky getting their fucking advert breaks in. Three minutes late, the game finally kicks off. QPR start well and look to be every bit the decent side we've been told about.

[Incidentally, the bloke in front of me stinks. It started before the game: I got a faint smell of stale piss in my nostrils and thought "someone stinks of piss here". I've managed to confirm it's the bloke directly in front of me, wearing a grey shirt.]

City have the ball in the net on 16 and we spend a good ten seconds celebrating before the realisation comes that the flag was up the whole time. A text message from someone watching on Sky confirms the decision is right. Some decent football from both sides follows, but on 33 Adel Taraabt goes unchallenged to a loose ball which he carries into the box and slots calmly past Chris Weale. Fuck.

A couple of minutes later, the same man is coming at City's defence and they really don't want to know. He puts his shot wide, but if this is how the game is going to go then it could be a long night. Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) shoots from 40 yards. For some reason. I find this funny.

Another minute on, Dany N'Guessan hooks in a cross from the left hand side and Matty Fryatt nods it in from five yards. City are level!

The rest of the first half passes without much incident, save for a couple of decent moves, and at half time the best thing to happen is the bloke in front who stinks of piss goes off somewhere. I'm slightly concerned that City have switched formations about sixteen times in the first half. Towards the end of the break, an obviously upset QPR fan is mouthing off and gesturing at someone in the Leicester end. Helen and I look around but we can't figure out who it is. Is it me he's staring at? If not it's someone very nearby. Twat.

Second half begins pretty much as the first ended, but nothing of interest until minute 64, when Radek Cerny in the QPR goal makes an appalling hash of a pass to his right-back, which Fryatt gratefully dribbles back towards goal and puts beyond the now red-faced keeper. The away end goes barmy.

A couple of minutes after City take the lead, the home side make a positive move by bringing on Rowan Vine, a man whose scoring record doesn't really suggest he's the man to turn things around. This move is only bettered by the 86th minute decision to bring Adel Taraabt off for Patrick Agyemang. In spite of the introduction of these two goal machines (between them they've amassed a mighty two goals in 29 appearances this season) City hold on for the win. Two night games in five days, six points in the bag. Fantastic.

The walk back to White City station is trouble-free and easy enough (except that Helen is still suffering from the ankle injury we spoke about before) but now we need to get three - yes, three - trains to move 2.326 miles to our hotel. Firstly the Central Line train to Ealing Broadway (four stops), then the District Line to Ealing Common (one stop) and finally the Piccadilly Line to Park Royal. Arriving at Park Royal, I consult a nearby map to find out which direction we need to walk in for "two minutes", according to one website. This is no help, however, and after asking some locals we're pointed in the opposite direction. So we start walking. Soon we see the Travelodge. It's two minutes' walk away, tops. Wonderful, won't be long now until we're in the warm.

We soon notice that there's a large barrier running down the middle of the main road between us and our beds (or rather, her bed and my not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing). It's too high to climb, so the only option is to keep walking until there's a crossing.

Eighteen minutes later we finally walk through the front doors of the hotel. Hungry, we order pizza from the nearest Dominos that actually delivers. This is an ordeal in itself, as the fucking idiot on the other end of the phone, who really shouldn't be allowed to handle telephones in his personal life let alone doing so as part of a paid position, has trouble with a) the order, b) the postcode, for some reason, c) the idea of delivering to a hotel, and d) the difference between a hotel and a block of flats. What feels like hours later, we get in the lift to carry us up to the fourth floor.

As soon as the door opens, I realise I'm going to be complaining about this place. The first two problems make themselves obvious straight away: the walls are not clean by any reasonable standard, and the blind on the window has been scrawled on by a previous resident and not replaced. Nonetheless, we settle in and before long we've eaten and watched some tv (problem 3: the tv makes odd noises). Time to get to sleep, which highlights problem 4: no bedding provided for the not-really-a-sofa-or-a-bed-but-somehow-they're-allowed-to-call-it-both thing. Unwilling to go back down to reception at almost 1am, I decide I'll just have to be cold for the night.

Next morning at around half past ten, we check out and start to walk up the hill towards the station, having decided that there must be a quicker way back than the detour we took last night. Indeed there is - a grotty-looking and badly-lit walkway underneath the main road. During our trip back to Victoria (via Ealing Common and Earls Court) we encounter an awkward woman blocking our entrance to the train who then talks loudly into her phone about getting her hair done (while I playfully imagine throwing her out of the window at high speed), and another woman with eyelashes longer than my index finger talking loudly and emotionally (and bilingually) into her phone about some shit or other (while I listen to my iPod on as loud a setting as it will go). Some people have no manners when it comes to public transport travel.

After breakfast (which for Helen comes in the form of two cups of coffee - I'm starting to think she has an allergy, or at least a serious aversion, to non-coffee flavours), it's time to catch the return coach back to Leicester. Helen spots, in the next bay, a coach bound for Grimsby. Grimsby is one of the worst places on the face of the earth, and she should know because she used to live there.

[For the record, I still contend that Mansfield is always worse, no matter where your starting point.]

Helen desperately tries to prevent people from ruining their lives by going to Grimsby, but to no avail. We're off now anyway.

Final score: QPR 1 Leicester 2
Ticket: £25
Coach: £15
TfL Travel: £10.30
Hotel: £29
Total: £79.30

Madejski's circus

2009-10-28T21:30:00.004Z

October 26th: Reading v Leicester City (Championship)

I leave work at 12.30 and catch the bus to the city centre. This bus goes down Melton Road, and at the junction where that road meets Loughborough Road, on the opposite side, there are some benches. I look to my left as we pass these benches now, and I see a depressing sight. Middle-aged men sitting there drinking cheap cans of tramp fuel. It's a few minutes before 1pm. As the bus reaches the bottom of Charles Street, another depressing sight: everyone standing outside the job centre is wearing at least one item of Adidas clothing.

[Here's a tip for those who find themselves drinking on a bench in Leicester at 12.55 on a Monday afternoon: Stop buying Special Brew and find something constructive to do. Preferably something that won't kick the absolute fuck out of your liver, kill your remaining brain cells, ruin your eyesight or seriously affect your ability to refrain from pissing yourself in public.

I also have tips for those currently seeking a job:
1. Do not wear Adidas tracksuit bottoms to an interview. Also try not to tuck your trousers into your socks, you look a cunt.
2. Put together a cv and apply for jobs instead of hanging around and smoking outside the job centre in large groups before going to the pub for the day.
3. Youporn.com does not exist.]

From the bus, I walk up to WH Smith where I pick up a copy of The Drawing of the Three before making my way to the railway station. Ten minutes after I arrive, a slightly delayed 1333 service to London St Pancras arrives and departs a few minutes behind schedule (mostly because the 1326 didn't leave until 1332).

I manage to get a decent chunk of my new book read before the train reaches St Pancras, where I check the time and make my way to the Underground. The westbound Circle Line train takes me to Paddington for twenty past three, giving me 28 minutes before the service on which I'm booked leaves. Except it doesn't appear on any boards. Panic is avoided when I notice there's hardly anyone queueing for the customer service desk, so I ask a large woman how I identify my train. "Restrictions have been lifted, so you can get the 1545." Marvellous. First stop - Reading.

I find platform 4 and enter the train at carriage C. The near end of carriage C is a little crowded with bemused travellers looking for their reserved seats in carriage B, which it appears South West Trains have neglected to include. With a missing carriage on this train and the apparent cancellation of the 1515 service, the train is a tiny bit overpopulated. I feel somewhat relieved that I'm only on for one stop.

Arriving in Reading at shortly after 4.15, I wander about long enough to visit a cash machine and buy chewing gum before putting my life at risk by crossing the road to get to the bus stop. The number 52 bus has me at the stadium well before 5, so I decide to get my souvenir purchase out of the way before finding some food.

Full, and only £4 worse off, I come out of Pizza Hut at about 6pm. After crossing the car park I find a couple of City fans walking along the main road.
"Where's the pub?"
I shrug in response. Two more arrive from the other direction.
"Where's the pub?"
I look back at the first two. We all shrug. It seems they've been given some substandard directions. Eventually, a couple of Reading fans are kind enough to direct the thirsty gents to a pub.
"How far away is that?" they enquire.
"About a 20-minute walk."

The first two decide that a pint isn't worth a 40-minute round trip, and end up walking with me to the ground. They've travelled from Monmouth to be at today's game, so fair play to them. Shortly after we reach the away end, someone taps me on the shoulder.
"You again." I turn around. It's Radio Leicester's John Sinclair.
"Evening, John. Good trip?"
"Well..." John tells me about the traffic problems encountered on the way down. He makes the suggestion that seeing as I'm always at the ground before them, perhaps he and and his colleague Mr Stringer should travel to away games with me. Yeah, good plan John...

I listen in as John shoves a microphone under the faces of my two temporary friends, and afterwards we wish him a good evening as he wanders off to find something else of interest.

I have several conversations in the run-up to kick-off, before finally settling on a seat at about 7.30. Well before the start of the game, abuse is being hurled at Chris Coleman, who is here for Sky TV.

The game starts interestingly enough, and before long Reading have created their first chance. Not long after, their second. Then another. And another. How the first 40 minutes passes without a Reading goal, I'll never understand. Just before half time, City get a corner at the far end. Matt Oakley floats it towards the head of Martyn Waghorn, who diverts it into the far corner. At the break, City lead.

In the second half, the home side seem to have lost something but still create. The hour mark arrives, still no Reading goal. Innumerable scoring opportunities have been created and squandered. On 65, Royals boss Brendan Rogers makes a decision: lively striker Simon Church (the man who looks most like scoring, to be honest) and crap midfielder Gylfi Sigurdsson are coming off for Shane Long and Jimmy Kebe. This just happens to come during a City fans' chant of "You're getting sacked in the morning", giving some of the home fans the opportunity to join in. This attitude is obviously not popular with some - furious arguments are visible from here.

Further Reading chances come and go - nothing. The tension among home fans grows more obvious by the minute. More chances wasted. Frustration. As away fans, we're enjoying it. Literally nobody around me can believe what we're seeing. The second half has been nothing short of comedy football. And after the previous 75 minutes, nobody can imagine the opposition scoring. Chance after chance after chance, simply frittered away as if they were in infinite supply. And then it ends - the final whistle blows. Three more points for the Foxes, another miserable defeat for Reading.

[Interestingly, Brendan Rogers is related to the late former host of the mind-fucking gibberish-based quiz show 3-2-1, Ted Rogers. Other relatives include ex-Leicester and Trees non-footballer Alan Rogers, American kids' tv favourite Mr Rogers, country singer Kenny Rogers and fictional 20s comic strip character Buck Rogers. Guess which ones I made up.]

Eventually, I find the bus to take me back to the station, and we're there about 20 minutes before the train is set to depart at 2346. I wait on the platform. No other Leicester shirts, I might be in luck here. A few blue and white hoops, but understandably they're a little sullen. Two minutes before departure time, just when I think I'm going to have a nice quiet trip home, half a dozen obviously pissed up City fans arrive. Shit.

The brief ride back to London is actually not that bad. My annoyance threshold barely tested, I am joined by the group on my tube trip back to St Pancras, where the last train back to Leicester leaves at 12.15.

Within a few minutes of us leaving St Pancras, I make my excuses and move carriages (no chance I'll be able to sleep with the noisy fucker sitting opposite me). Then I get the feeling that we've stopped. I must be imagining things, because we would've been told wouldn't we?

Ten minutes later, the announcement comes: we're waiting for some maintenance to be done on the train, it doesn't appear to be running properly. After a few more minutes of being stationary, I decide sleep is a good idea. It turns out I'm right, because the next thing I see, through blurry eyes, is Leicester station. It's 3.15am, which means the train was delayed for a little over an hour. The best thing to do now is to get straight into a taxi - an hour's walk home isn't an option, considering I have to be up at 6.30 for work.

Leicester just won on telly. Imagine that.

Final score: Reading 0 Leicester 1
Time: 15 hours 10 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Train: £25
Total: £47.50

[By the way, anybody wishing to post a comment is more than welcome, as long as you're not advertising fucking bingo websites. Fuck off Mukesh, we're not interested.]

Are you sure he's Scottish?

2009-10-22T22:09:00.005+01:00

October 20th: Leicester City v Crystal Palace (Championship)

Let's not talk about the first half. The most entertaining thing is Paul, two seats to my left, being in possibly the most cantankerous mood I've ever known. This causes some frankly odd abuse to be aimed at the pitch.

The second half begins with a substitution: lively but ineffective Lloyd Dyer is off, Paul Gallagher is on. Helen, sitting to my left, is visibly excited by this. She almost forgets about the pain in her leg.

[Helen has injured the ankle and knee of her right leg; these injuries are apparently independent of one another.]

The game looks different with Gally. Fifteen minutes into the second half, he runs into the area and is fouled. After a few moments, the referee makes a decision and points to the spot. After Gally picks himself up, Matty Fryatt steps up to take the penalty and hits it straight at Julian Speroni. Gally, who was practically in the six-yard box before the ball was kicked (a fact seemingly missed by Mr East), fires the rebound past the helpless keeper. City lead. Helen jumps up and down, further injuring her own leg despite my attempts (at her own request) to keep her still.

Nine minutes from the end, Gally sees a horrible touch by Danny Butterfield fall into his path and has no hesitation in using his first touch to lob the keeper from about 35 yards. Helen jumps up and down again. She's going to be hobbling home later.

News that Ipswich have had a possible first victory of the season snatched away from them at the very death of their game at home to Watford is greeted in the Kop by cheers. Liverpool's home defeat to Lyon is also apparently a popular piece of news. Coventry's loss at Cardiff is no surprise but is also cheered.

I decide to get the bus home, and almost immediately wish I hadn't. I hand over two quid for a £1.80 fare, but the driver protests that he has no change. No problem, I'll have it back when I get off.

[Now, you're going to think I'm being petty here, but I'm not. Bus travel costs far too much as it is without me paying extra just because they are evidently clueless when it comes to carrying change. Why should I be forced to fork out an additional 11% due to their poor planning? Fuck Arriva, I want my 20p back.]

More people get on until eventually the driver starts waving people away - the bus is too full. Bear in mind that I've just watched him, from a distance of two feet, accept several 20p pieces into his hand. A few stops later on, two people get off. A man tries to get on, only to be told that the bus is full. I look with some disbelief at the bloke standing opposite me. "But there's two people just got off" protests the man at the door.
"The bus is full" repeats the driver.
"But two people have just got off."
"It's full, I can't take any more on."
"But two people have just got off!"
"I can't take any more on."
And the man gives up, stepping back into the cold rain with a look on his face that suggested a mixture of anger and amazement.

The bus empties, and eventually reaches my stop. The doors open, and I step towards the driver. I wait. He just looks at me, as if not knowing what I'm waiting for. "Can I have my change now?"
"I've got no twenty pees."
"Yes you have."
"No, I haven't."
"I just watched you take several."
"Smallest thing I've got is 50p."
"I'll give you this 30p then."
Transaction complete. Fucking bus drivers - cunts, all.

Final score: Leicester 2 Crystal Palace 0

Nothing to talk about

2009-10-18T19:19:00.003+01:00

October 17th: Leicester City v Derby County (Championship)

The only thing worth mentioning from before the game is the unnecessary police escort that a large group of Derby fans have been given from the station. Near the ground, a police officer uses equally needless heavy-handedness to shove a group of four innocent people out of the herd's way. He offers the excuse that he's trying to avoid "winding this lot up", neatly ignoring the facts that a) the group he shoved are Derby fans, and b) the rounding up of football fans at railway stations and walking them to the ground surrounded by horses, police vans and jobsworth cunts as if they're convicted murderers being transferred from one high-security prison to another is more likely to wind them up than a small group of people walking nearby, particularly if the small group of people is wearing their colours.

The only thing worth mentioning from the game itself is the waking coma I slip into at some point during the astoundingly tedious second half. That and the fact that neither set of fans seems to give two shits about the game. Oh, and that it's manifestly not the 'sell-out' the club have been telling us about all week. The game finishes 0-0.

The only thing worth mentioning from after the game is a drink in that ropey, not-really-that-studenty student pub near the canal. Then I go home. And that's it.

Final score: Leicester 0 Derby 0

Return of the Headless One

2009-10-05T19:01:00.002+01:00

October 3rd: Coventry City v Leicester City (Championship)

[BREAKING NEWS: Blue Maniac lands sidekick

I have recruited an occasional sidekick (sort of a part-timer) and, thanks to assistance from Any Question Answered, her name is now Mistress Sparkle.]

Sparkle beats me to the bus station - she's apparently been here since 8.15 or something. I arrive at 8.30, as agreed, and we chat as we wait. On schedule, the coach to Birmingham arrives, and we make our way to the only available adjacent seats (at the very back), next to a bloke who smells a bit. During the longest hour of recent weeks, Sparkle entertains herself by sending just shy of a thousand text messages. I entertain myself by watching a variety of idiots on the coach, including a woman who keeps fiddling with the air conditioning buttons above her head, apparently not knowing what any of them are doing.

At Digbeth, there's a short interval wherein we see a trio of Tottenham fans on their way to Bolton and I investigate the wares on offer in the shop (zero of interest). The coach is now late, so we go up to the information desk and ask when it'll be here. "In the next few minutes, boarding from Zone A," we're cheerfully assured.

Some fifteen minutes later, in Zone D (at the opposite end of the station to Zone A) we're told the coach to London (via Coventry) is boarding. I privately curse the witch who sent us to the wrong end of the station, and lead Sparkle to the appropriate gate, where we discover the driver is nowhere to be seen. We stand and wait for a few minutes, then some bloke wanders up to the front of the coach and invites us to board. It transpires he's the driver, although you'd never know it from his attire. No matter, Sparkle and I are on board.

We arrive in Coventry some minutes after 11am and very soon receive a call from Ben, who has just got off the train at the other end of the city centre. After a much-needed late breakfast (for which Ben pays) we return to the railway station to get a taxi to the stadium. Just as we do, two young strangers ask if they can get in with us. No problem there, even if they are Coventry fans. As it turns out, they're friendly enough, but just a tad on the racist side. At the ground, we split the fare unevenly (there are only two of them compared to three of us, but they pay £6 of the £11 fare. Ben, on the other hand, pays fuck all. Still, given that Sparkle gives me two quid, I figure I've only paid three so I reckon it's alright). As a trio we enter the club shop / ticket office. Sparkle and I go and find a mug for my collection, while Ben collects the ticket I ordered for him yesterday.

An extremely long walk later, Sparkle and I find our seats just as the game commences. Early on, it looks like it could be a good scrap - these local derbies often are. At some point, it's confirmed that DJ Campbell is, somehow, on the bench. Something must have changed there.

A good first half takes a sour turn towards the end as a Paul Gallagher handball results in a free kick for the home side. Sammy Clingan, whose name definitely does not sound like 'cling-on', hits a top-notch free-kick past Chris Weale. Bollocks. Sparkle instantly jumps to the defence of Gally, despite nobody saying anything negative about him. This is because Sparkle is in love with Gally's car.

At half time, we're joined by Ben, who fills an empty seat next to me. The second half starts somewhat dully for City, but on the hour Mr Pearson decides it's time for a change. Or three. Steve Howard and Martyn Waghorn (variously called 'Wags', 'Waggeh' and 'Foghorn' by different sections of the City support) enter the field of play, as does Campbell for the first time in a competitive match this season. This bold switch brings about a change in the tone of the game as all three men affect the game in their own way (in Campbell's case, this involves firing an apparently simple cross into the side netting). Ten minutes after the changes, Waghorn sends a screaming half-volley past Kieran Westwood to level things up.

After the final whistle, we eventually make our way to the buses to take us back into the centre. I hand over a little over a tenner for the three of us, and we seat ourselves at the back. Sparkle repays most of her fare. Ben pays fuck all nowt. Again.

Back in the centre, Ben is soon off to catch his train back to the city of comedy accents, where he lives. Sparkle and I decide it's time to pick up some drinks, and this time she pays fuck all nowt.

[It's becoming a common theme, this. Fortunately these are people I can trust well enough not to take the piss. If someone else tried it - you, for example - I'd tell them to get fucked.]

As we wait for the coach, Sparkle sends another six dozen text messages while I watch local idiots. Bus stations are always full of the type of person you hope to avoid on buses. The coach back to Leicester arrives not a moment too soon, and about half an hour later Sparkle and I part company at St Margaret's.

I like having a sidekick.

Final score: Coventry 1 Leicester 1
Time: 8 hours 45 minutes
Ticket: £25
Coach: £16.90
Total: £41.90

To me, to you

2009-10-01T19:30:00.006+01:00

September 29th: Middlesbrough v Leicester City (Championship)

At midnight, I give up - there's no way I'll last until the coach arrives at 4.55am without sleeping. So I set my alarm for 2.30...

I wake up at 3.22, with my alarm clock several yards away from where it started, which means a rushed preparation for the day. I manage to leave the house at 3.53, meaning I have 62 minutes before the coach leaves. Regular followers will know that achieving this time would beat my current personal best of 63 minutes, and is well inside my most recent time of 69 minutes. Better get a stride on then.

I manage to arrive at 4.52 (59 minutes - a new personal best, and my legs hurt), and I just make the back of the queue as the last few passengers are being loaded. I sit about six seats from the front, right in front of some noisy little bastard whining at his parents. Everyone's soon asleep, though (didn't even need the chloroform I have in my bag) and I remain in that state until London. I enjoy breakfast at around 7.45, slightly more so because there's a woman at the next table frightened of letting her bags, which are a yard away, out of her sight for even a fraction of a second. She's been to London before, clearly.

Later, across the road, I watch with perverse amusement as a couple, easily in their early 60s, wrestle mentally and physically with the logistics of carrying about ten heavy bags between them. After a good two minutes of swapping and struggling (and falling backwards into the path of a bemused passing motorist) they finally decide on a configuration that works and make for the door of the station. Unfortuitously, the male half of the double act has become so cumbersome and ungainly with the sheer quantity of rucksacks and holdalls wrapped around his anatomy that he cannot fit through the double doors leading inside. Such is the delicacy of the balance, it's now down to his equally clueless sidekick to rearrange the bags yet again in order to ensure both that he can fit through and that he doesn't topple over. Moments later, the two are struggling towards their departure gate. Meanwhile, I'm amazed to realise that I've managed to keep a more-or-less straight face throughout their (presumably frustrating) ordeal.

With another hour to kill before my coach departs, I decide to wander in a direction chosen entirely at random, and end up walking in a 40-minute circle. Well that was fun. Back in the coach station, I walk through the departures building and towards the waiting area. I find myself quickly repelled by a strong smell, and retreat to find a seat near the appropriate gate. It seems someone has used part of the coach station as not only a bedroom but also as a toilet. It's not long before the 'Wet Floor' signs are out and the culprit is 'removed'.

I sit on the uncomfortable metal bench and wait. In the following minutes, as a young woman in an indescribably short and, considering the weather, inappropriate dress sits opposite and a man talks loudly into his mobile phone nearby, I make very brief conversation with a very nervous woman sitting to my left. And then the doors open.

As the coach pulls away from Victoria, I hear (through my half-sleep) that there will be a driver change at Leicester Forest East. Now that's annoyed me. Not for long though, because I fall asleep again and the next thing I know we're at Woodall services. Here, passengers are instructed very clearly not to bring hot food back on board, and to be back at 1.45 because the coach will be leaving then. So at 1.47, the last two passengers finally stroll back and climb aboard.

[I really hate it when people cannot follow a basic instruction. I hate it more when people, like this driver, accommodate such people by not fucking off at the right time and leaving the twats stranded.]

Around York, a woman whose age I'll estimate at 141 gets up from her seat, shuffles a little towards the back of the coach, then turns round and sits back down again. Presumably she decided against a toilet visit shortly after her initial opposite decision. Whether this is because she forgot where she was going, or she pissed herself and thought a toilet trip was now unnecessary, I couldn't guess.

Eventually, the coach pulls to a stop in familiar surroundings, and I see it again. Back in February, I described the following as the most soul-destroying words in the English language:

WELCOME TO MIDDLESBROUGH

Nothing in the intervening period has changed my mind.

A walk through the centre of Middlesbrough soon brings me to the off-site MFC club shop. Just the place to buy a mug. As I browse, I get talking to Keith. He's the security bloke here, and is a unbelievably nice man. Both Lauren and Alex are also very pleasant, although Lauren appears to know very little about what's going on around her.

Not far from the ground, I'm spotted by someone in a passing car - now I'm driving around with Paul, Janice and Helen. Owing to the fact that he's been here several times before, Paul knows exactly where to park. After an unusually convoluted trip around what appears to be an abandoned industrial estate, we're finally stationary. And almost alone.

We walk down to the ground before 7pm, and outside the ticket office we meet Cherie, my tour guide from my previous trip to the northeast. Eventually we make our way inside and to the seats. Shortly before kick-off, the seats around us fill up and I end up going to the seat named on my ticket, which is in the very back row.

The stewards spend the first twenty minutes of the match trying to get people to sit down, but give up after that when they realise nobody's going to listen. There's some decent noise being created, I'm happy with that. What I'm not happy with is the person who keeps making that awful stink. It's the sort of smell you'd expect from someone who's been eating lamb madras for every meal all week. Fortunately, the first half ends just at the point when my eyes are watering, and as there's an empty seat by Cherie I relocate back to where I started.

The second half represents an entertaining battle but it's the 83rd minute before any breakthrough is made. Matt Oakley centres for Lloyd Dyer to place a deflected shot into the back of Brad Jones' goal. During the following celebrations, I somehow get tangled up with the bloke next to me and almost rip the hood off his coat. The next ten minute period produces some nervy moments but City hold on for the first away win of the season.

On the way out, I say my goodbyes to P, J & H (it's quicker this way) and walk into town with Cherie for a quick drink in a nearby pub. As before, she gives me a lift back to the bus station and we part company again. Inside is Alan, trying to figure out which stand the coach departs from. One board appears to say stands 28-31, which are upstairs, while the one next to it suggests stand 33, which is across the road on the opposite side of the station. I'm pretty sure the 00.15 coach from Middlesbrough to London has always left from upstairs, and upon investigating we discover a couple of other people hoping that's still the case. We talk for the next hour until the 426 overnight service arrives, and I take a seat at the back - and fall asleep.

I cannot see Doncaster, because I'm asleep. That is, until the noisy cow sitting next to me starts talking loudly to her equally noisy family members. In my dazed state, I neglect to shout "it's half past two in the fucking morning! I've got work at 1 o'clock! Shut the fuck up!" in her face. Luckily for her, there's no further disturbance until London, where I have to get off anyway. Noisy bitch.

Another early morning breakfast (6.35) followed by a trip to the newsagent to pick up some reading material, and a trip to the little HMV in Victoria railway station (where I grab a three dvd pack of kids' films for £7 - that, along with the Simpsons game on Xbox 360 will keep Maniac Jr quiet for a few hours), before wandering back up to the coach station to witness a man reading - out loud and to himself - the sides of all the visible coaches.

Time to make a move towards the right gate. I sit down for a bit, and the girl opposite apparently notices that I'm observing our surroundings in much the same way she is - with amusement. Suddenly, she parks herself next to me, introduces herself as Jess and starts chattering away. She's inoffensive enough, and very small, so I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. Good decision as it turns out, because she's a nice kid.

Within 20 minutes of boarding the coach, I'm asleep yet again and only woken by the driver's announcement that we've arrived in Leicester. A weary stumble up the road and a bus trip later, I'm home at 11.32am. An hour and a half before I need to be at work...

Final score: Middlesbrough 0 Leicester 1
Time: 31 hours 39 minutes
Ticket: £26
Coach: £24
Total: £50

Just like old times

2009-09-27T12:31:00.004+01:00

September 26th: Leicester City v Preston North End (Championship)

Blue Maniac's random updates, 26.09.09:

2.14pm: Leave the house.
2.32pm: Meet Paul, Janice, Helen and her quiet but apparently harmless housemate.
2.48pm: Take a seat in the southeast corner.
3.07pm: Robbie Neilson needs kicking in the bollocks.
3.26pm: Did I leave the tv on?
3.33pm: No I didn't.
3.42pm: Fucking Wayne fucking Brown.
3.48pm: What a terrible half.
3.57pm: Ooh, a birthday card. Haha, ginger.
4.05pm: No subs. Inexplicable.
4.37pm: Fuck this.
4.58pm: I'm off.

Final score: Leicester 1 Preston 2

Déjà vu. Again.

2009-09-20T20:12:00.005+01:00

September 19th: Watford v Leicester City (Championship)

As is the norm now, I leave the house while it's still dark. Even though Watford is a pretty straightforward trip, when I booked I decided an early start would be best because a) travelling through London can often be more complicated than is necessary, and b) it gives me time to have a wander around London, should I so wish. Even though I almost certainly won't.

At 4.35am I leave the house, and arrive at the bus station at 5.44. That's six minutes slower than I was doing it before, not sure what's happened there. Never mind, I'm still in time for the 5.50 bus. In fact, I have time to notice the looks on the faces of other people who are up at this time to catch a coach to London, and also the pool of green sick on the pavement near one of the benches. Interestingly, this is the only vacant seat.

The 440 turns up a few minutes late, and shortly everyone's loaded. I throw back a couple of paracetamol to deal with a monster headache I've had since I started my walk, and it does the trick almost straight away. I wake up briefly at Milton Keynes, then not again until London. Into the cafe for breakfast, then over to the railway station to buy a return ticket to Watford.

I go to the information point to enquire about the quickest/best way to get to Watford, and I'm advised to go to Euston. Makes perfect sense, but then I notice the ticket that the machine spat out stipulates a route: Clapham Junction. Seems like a lot of messing about. Not to worry, I'm told, because that ticket will allow me through Euston, via the underground. Brilliant. Down I go then to the Victoria line, and sure enough the ticket lets me through. Up to Euston, and round to the relevant platforms. The woman at the barrier points me towards a train, and tells me "get on that one, it'll be quicker." So on I get, not even stopping to read the screens. A London Midland employee is bound to be right, surely.

Well, as it turns out, no. The train starts moving, and I take a seat. Passengers are welcomed aboard the service by the driver, and he runs through the sequence of stops. I become concerned when I realise he said 'Leighton Buzzard' first. Now, I'm no expert on trains, but I'm pretty sure that Euston - Leighton Buzzard - Watford is an unlikely route. They're pretty much one direction from the off. So why the fuck am I going all the way to Leighton fucking Buzzard? I doubt this is going to be quicker than a train that goes, say, to Watford.

I alight at Leighton fucking Buzzard and switch platforms, and a couple of minutes later (fortunately for that cow at Euston) a southbound train arrives. Three stops later, I'm at Watford Junction. I take a walk around the town centre, but having never come here by train it's some time before I see anything familiar. Even then, it's only Bernie, who also hasn't got the first idea where the ground is. When I first catch sight of him, he's asking directions of a bloke giving out McDonalds coupons. Now Bernie, we both know that if this chap was capable of things like giving accurate directions, he'd not be out on a Saturday afternoon giving out McDonalds coupons. Nonetheless, we both follow said directions for about two streets before Bernie starts to wander off in a big loop back to where we started whilst mumbling to himself something about Elton John.

I wander for an hour or so in what I believe is the right direction before finally finding something that jogs the memory. Yes, I know where I am now, it's just up this street. Bingo, there's the, erm, 'stadium'.

Approaching 1 o'clock, I meet with Paul and Janice, and they show me to a cafe on the nearby precinct. The lunch that follows can only be described as perfect, well worth whatever it costs.

Inside the building site that is Vicarage Road stadium, we're in our row X seats by 2 o'clock. The screen in the corner to our right is showing Burnley v Sunderland, and I just about make out David Nugent scoring a peach for the Clarets. The Vicarage Road stand fills up around us, and inevitably there are dozens who end up standing.

With the game less than 20 minutes old, John Eustace (ex-Cov) inexplicably hits the ball with his arm in his own penalty area. Matty Fryatt smacks the resulting penalty past Scott Loach for 1-0. Five minutes before half time Fryatt runs down the left and cuts inside Craig Cathcart before slotting a second in the far corner. At half time, City are 2-0 up and the game looks all but won.

At half time, something happens. Raffle or summat.

The beginning of the second half sees the introduction to the fray (and return to Watford) of Heidar Helguson, and also a shift in formation for the home side. Malky Mackay has apparently decided that two up front is the way to go, hence the substitution. Within quarter of an hour, he's proved right as first Danny Graham and, two minutes later, Helguson both convert from right-wing crosses. Thirteen minutes from time, the unthinkable happens - the Hornets grab a third, and it's Helguson again. Looks like it went in off his knee. Fucking shitty cunting fuck.

After Helguson goes off injured, City produce a few chances to pull level again, but it appears nothing will go in. That is, until Martyn Waghorn bursts down the left and hooks in a cross right at Dany N'Guessan, whose header floats impressively inside the far post with Loach stranded. Lovely stuff.

Time to get back to the station. Having paid precisely zero attention to my own movements earlier on, I'm more or less guessing. This is where I learn something very important about Watford: whatever you do, don't follow the signs. An hour after the game finishes, I finally reach Watford Junction station. Sitting on the train, I check my pockets. Not in that one, or that one. Hmm. Where's that gone? I'm sure I had it after I left the cafe. I definitely had it in the stadium, because I remember reading it. Nope, gone. My coach ticket's vanished, and I'm pretty sure I lost it when that third goal went in. I got pulled down almost two rows, my shirt is now three sizes bigger and I'm pretty sure my boxers are ripped. And apparently, I'm a coach ticket down.

Shortly before 7pm, I'm back at Euston. That fucking woman who put me on the wrong train is gone. Now I'll never get to throw her hat onto the tracks. Never mind.

Downstairs I go, but I discover that my ticket won't allow me through to the platform for the Victoria line. Then I remember why: my ticket is subject to a specified route. Despite being allowed through this way this morning, it appears I can't do the reverse on the same ticket. Remembering that my destination - Victoria - is only four stops away, I go to a ticket machine to buy a single ticket. The machine requests four pounds, and is justifiably instructed to fuck off. No chance whatsoever that I'm pulling out another four quid.

The only option, then, is to go back upstairs and get a train back out to Willesden Junction (eighteen minutes) then another down to Clapham Junction (twenty minutes) and a third to Victoria (seven minutes). It would've been about ten on the tube. Never mind, it's killed time I would've otherwise spent sitting on a cold bench at the coach station.

The first person I ask for help at the coach station suggests I talk to a member of Leicester Express staff, whoever the hell they are. The second suggests I go to the internet cafe in arrivals and get my ticket reference number. Said internet cafe is closed. The third is the driver of the 440, fifteen minutes before departure. The fourth is the woman he points to sitting at gate 16. She directs me to a little door across the station, behind which is Charles. Charles sits me down at a computer screen in his office and gets me to print my ticket off again, and after thanking him (for apparently being the only person in both London and National Express who has a fucking clue how either works) I leave. Two minutes before departure, I wave my new ticket at the driver and take a seat halfway to the back.

I spent half an hour talking to Nikki, who sits opposite, before falling into an inevitable and spine-twistingly uncomfortable sleep. The coach arrives in Leicester at 11.45pm, and I walk home is exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of blister-maddening agony. I'm fucked.

Final score: Watford 3 Leicester 3
Time: 20 hours 25 minutes
Ticket: £22.50
Coach: £10
Train: £8.10
Total: £40.60

The streak continues

2009-09-16T21:56:00.005+01:00

September 15th: Leicester City v Peterborough United (Championship)

The hi-tech ultra-reliable electronic bus stop (which uses GPS and has an in-built voice-activated timetable and coffee vending machine and is definitely not a simple random number generator, honest) says the next bus is in 39 minutes, but that's obviously a lie because I can see one going in the opposite direction, and it's not going to take him 39 minutes to turn round and come back. Two minutes later, the number has been replaced by a small dot. Two more minutes, it now says 2 minutes. Five minutes later, it's down to 1 minute, and five minutes after that the bus arrives.

For reasons I'll not disclose, I'm furious. This has been the case since long before I left work at 5pm. Suffice to say I need something to ease the tension. I need good people. Thankfully, there are some around, and I take a seat among them some ten minutes before kick-off. An entertaining first half ensues. City's Wayne Brown has a woeful first half hour, and caps his first-half 'performance' by having a wrestling match with Aaron McLean in the penalty box. The referee takes approximately a third of a second to point to the spot, and George Boyd steps up to put Peterborough in front.

[By all accounts, this penalty could easily have been given as a free kick the other way. Alas, it wasn't.]

At half time, we're, erm, treated to another tombola or some fucking thing. Some numbers are pulled out and some people I've never heard of win some shite. End.

The players come out for the second half - City have made two changes. It's no surprise to see Wayne Brown taken off for Aleksandr Tunchev, and Dany N'Guessan is removed in favour of Andy King. Two minutes into the second half, a Robbie Neilson shot is handballed on the line and the referee points to the same spot again. Matty Fryatt smashes the ball past the thus-far erratic Joe Lewis.

The rest of the second half produces some entertaining football but no further goals. The streak goes on - no home defeat in a little over a year now. That said, I would have much preferred a win tonight, for the following three reasons:

1. To keep the 100% home record this season.
2. Because Peterborough aren't really that good, despite what several publications will tell you about them being the best side since the Hungary team of 1953 with Nándor Hidegkuti and Ferenc Puskás, or Darren Ferguson being a football genius to rival Rinus Michels, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Sir Matt Busby, Ernst Happel, Brian Clough, Jose Mourinho, Arrigo Sacchi, Miguel Munoz, Jock Stein and Johan Cruyff. And Claude Anelka.
3. Peterborough fans seem to think we're their rivals now they're in our league (albeit for one season). Even though we aren't, it's still nice to give the teams who are desperate to beat you a good shoeing.

Another half-hour walk home, another run-in with that old bastard with the dog (first time in nearly a year, but he still recognises me), and another night of quiet contemplation of the next game. Twelve points from seven games - I'm happy with that. I've almost forgotten what it was that made me so livid earlier on. Almost.

Roll on Saturday.

Final score: Leicester 1 Peterborough 1

I hate the cheap seats

2009-09-13T18:22:00.004+01:00

September 12th: Leicester City v Blackpool (Championship)

I wake up and realise it's 4am. The next half hour is spent trying to get back to sleep, to no avail. So I get dressed and go out for a wander, returning three hours later having bought food for breakfast. After eating, I watch a minute or two of Soccer AM then do what I always feel like doing after watching a minute or two of Soccer AM - throw a brick at the tv. That's a lie. Instead I switch it off and discover I need to get back that sleep I missed out on earlier.

I wake up reluctantly at 1.45, and get ready to leave. Today's trip to the stadium is disappointingly uneventful, although I do chuckle at the sight of an entire family of scrawny males sitting around with shirts off.

[Couple of things to think about here. Firstly, why is it every time the weather in this country gets a fraction of a degree above freezing, everyone's instantly dressed as if they're on the beach in sweltering weather in southern Spain? And why is it invariably the scrawniest of men who insist on taking their shirts off?]

Outside I briefly meet with some friends before going inside to sit in my own seat for the first time this season. With only ten minutes to go before kick-off, I observe this new viewpoint. I notice a large concentration of stewards in the far corner. No... No, they're Blackpool fans aren't they. I notice also that this seat feels very low down - not far from the pitch at all. The third thing I notice is the bloke next to me is wearing sandals.

Not long after the game kicks off, I find that this seat is not really worth the money (albeit £275 a season). The sole reason I'm giving for this is that the man behind me, who I can only describe as a fucking arsehole, is the sort of person who intermittently screams random words or phrases into the air. A lot of the time, the air he chooses to scream them into is directly behind my head. Now, this isn't Tourette's Syndrome, this is just someone being a twat. I used the word 'random' before, and it fits perfectly: it seems he has a selection of 'football phrases' that he just emits every so often. His list includes "move, goalie!", "useless!", "donkey(s)" and "centre-half". One by one, then, let's have a look at the context in which they are used:

1. "Move, goalie!" - This is screamed in the direction of Chris Weale when he fails to come for a ball bouncing harmlessly mere miles away from him.
2. "Useless!" - Followed quickly by "lazy bastard". Roared at Matty Fryatt moments after (yes, after) he slots Leicester's opener past Paul Rachubka.
3. "Donkeys" - In reference to central defenders Jack Hobbs and Wayne Brown, who he presumably feels should both be dropped for the injured Aleksandr Tunchev.
4. "Centre-half" - Just brilliant is this one. For anybody who thinks 'centre-half' is an acceptable football phrase in 2009, ask yourself this: would you refer to a left-half or an inside-right? Do you take a rattle to football matches? Why doesn't Bobby Charlton play for England any more? Look, nobody - nobody - has been a centre-half for about forty years. A centre-half only exists in a 2-3-5 formation, and have you seen one of those lately? No, you fucking haven't. Centre fucking half.

Five minutes after Fryatt's goal, a horrible error from Brown lets Charlie Adam in to tap the ball in from close range. Fuck. The Rangers reject then jogs along with his fingers to his lips in 'celebration'. Yeah, good job you've got the game wrapped up. No chance of you looking like a complete cock later is there?

At half-time, I relocate. Completely necessary really, that fucking idiot is starting to really annoy. The second half sees City get more on top, and on 58 Fryatt takes advantage of a defensive slip-up by the men in orange*, rounds the keeper and puts away the winner.

[Right, quick lesson on colours. Blackpool fans will tell you their shirts are 'tangerine'. 'Tangerine' is a shade of orange. Ergo, Blackpool's shirts are orange.]

At the final whistle, it's time to put the iPod on to drown out the scores. Fortunately I've found a particularly noisy track which might eventually destroy my ears if I listen to it too much but does the trick when I want to not hear something. Immediately after the game, I have to rush home and get changed because there's a surprise birthday party planned for my sister, and I need to be in Whetstone at 7.30.

[Coincidentally, the last time I was at a party of any note was my ex-girlfriend's wedding reception about two years ago, which took place on the same day as the last time we played Blackpool at home. Okay, so that's not interesting in the slightest.]

This isn't going to be the fun night I anticipated - not for me anyway. Having been up for so long - even having been to sleep in between - I've now got a headache. Not one of those shit, mildly annoying ones either. This is one of those that truly feels like someone with massive hands is crushing your head while Janet Street-Porter screams in your ears. Ah well, best get moving anyway. Three more points in the bag, that makes for a good weekend.

Final score: Leicester 2 Blackpool 1

Ziggy meets his match

2009-09-01T09:35:00.011+01:00

August 31st: Newcastle United v Leicester City (Championship)

Shit. I knew it was going to happen one of these days. Twenty minutes after I leave the house, I realise I've left my wallet at home. I look in my pockets, and start to ask myself if I can last the trip with three quid. No chance, so back I go. Almost back home, I flag down a taxi and tell him I need to go home then to the bus station. For reasons best known to himself, he wants cash up front, but this is obviously impossible. After three minutes of talking to him, it suddenly transpires that he wants twenty quid for a journey that should cost no more than ten. So after inviting him to fuck off, I start walking.

At more or less the same spot on my return, I flag down another, who takes me to the bus station for £8. Which just shows what a thieving cunt the first one was. At 5.45, the coach to London pulls up. One reason I love getting on empty coaches is the fact that they've often just been cleaned and aired out, which makes for a far more pleasant experience. Not many people get on at Leicester, and even fewer at Milton Keynes, so I'm most comfortable as I sit there in a trance staring out of the window as the world passes by.

At 8.45, I'm sitting down to a cooked breakfast and shortly afterwards, full and satisfied, I'm awaiting the 9.30 coach with a shiny new copy of World Soccer. I sit two-thirds of the way towards the back, and am pleased. Before the coach gets far out of central London, I'm less pleased. The girl in front has been coughing, on average, fourteen times a minute. It's not her fault, obviously she's unwell, but I just don't want to listen to it. The iPod fails to drown it out, so in the end I move to the nearest empty seat - the back row - and am instantly struck by the stink of piss coming (I hope) from the toilet. At Golders Green it's time for another seat switch, and I find one three rows from the front. The coach starts moving again, and- Now I'm fucked off. There's chewing gum all over the seatbelt. At Milton Keynes, a final seat change is in order (that's four different seats for anyone who's lost count), and finally I'm able to settle down and get comfortable.

Behind me is a Newcastle fan who calls himself Ziggy and who, incidentally, is patently not a Geordie. Our conversation is mostly one-sided, because Newcastle fans are utterly incapable of talking about anything but Newcastle. Don't get me wrong, I find Ziggy a wholly likeable bloke, but... But Newcastle fans always seem to have an overinflated idea of their club's stature. There's always a feeling I get talking to Newcastle fans that they have absolutely no idea which club they're talking about. For example they always seem indignant that world-class players choose legitimately massive clubs over theirs, and in the Premiership they were forever expecting their team to challenge for the title, which is plainly a ludicrous ambition for a club like Newcastle.

[Perfect example of the delusion of Newcastle fans: during my conversation with Ziggy, he explains that as part of his three-year season ticket deal, he's entitled to a set number of free cup games. His tactic of not wasting that entitlement on League Cup games and the like was apparently linked to the assumption (and that's what it was - an assumption) that he'd be able to use them on Champions League games. Champions League! For fuck's sake. A top-half finish in the Premiership is a long, long, long way off, let alone Champions fucking League!]

Woodall Services is the next stop, and also where we're to change drivers. I get off to stretch my legs (and wash off any chewing gum that might be on my hands) and then watch as several people try to get back on with KFC or McDonalds bags despite being clearly told that hot or greasy food would not be allowed on the coach.

Another stop is made not long before Newcastle in order to effect another driver change (seriously). As the bus nears the city, I notice something out of the corner of my eye on the right hand side. I turn, and I see the Angel of the North. The first thing that I notice is how unimpressive it is. Really. Crap.

Just before 4pm, the coach arrives at Newcastle, and finally it's time to get off and stretch my legs again. Ziggy and I go our separate ways, and I go for a little wander around the city centre. I find an official club shop, where I pick up a mug and a badge, and for the next hour or so I interact with a few home fans. Most of them are friendly, but there's still the odd occasion where I'm left thinking if I was a smaller or more easily intimidated person I'd be in trouble.

I have a walk up towards the stadium and soon find a decent-looking Chinese buffet restaurant. I decide that six quid is a good deal for all you can eat; I eat at a leisurely pace, drink orange juice and notice that I've been stared at more or less constantly by a bloke at the table opposite, and eventually I leave after about half an hour without the call for any violence.

[This really is a bizarre experience I'm having. Newcastle is simultaneously the most friendly and the most unwelcoming place I've ever visited. Some people here seem to want to be your best mate - a few minutes before I went in the restaurant a bloke in a Newcastle shirt just invited me to the pub with him - yet others seem to want to burn holes in you with their eyes.]

At 6.15, the turnstiles open, and I'm one of the first in. Once inside, the only thing to do is to start climbing. Fourteen flights of stairs later, I'm within sight of the seating area. I bid farewell to my sherpa and give him a generous tip. I find my seat, which is near the front of the top tier, and I sit down to have a read of my magazine. The seats around me fill up, and I go for a wander. When I come back, more seats have been filled, and by 7.45 the away section is well and truly full. Shame I can't say the same about the home seating. Best fans in the world this lot.

[Fun Newcastle United quiz!!! (CLUE: all the answers are e.)

Question 1: Which of the following players have Newcastle signed in this summer's transfer window?
a) Cristiano Ronaldo and Karim Benzema
b) Andrei Arshavin and Cesc Fabregas
c) Didier Drogba and Frank Lampard
d) Steven Gerrard and Fernando Torres
e) Danny Simpson on loan

Question 2: Which of the following did Newcastle win last season?
a) The FA Cup
b) The Premier League
c) The Champions League
d) All of the above
e) Fuck all nowt

Question 3: Which of the following lists describes what Newcastle have won in the last 40 years?
a) 15 League titles, six European Cups, eight FA Cups and four League Cups
b) Six League titles, two FA Cups, the League Cup and the UEFA Cup
c) Five FA Cups, one League Cup and the UEFA Cup
d) 40 League titles, 40 European Cups, 40 FA Cups, 40 League Cups, 40 Spanish Cups, and 10 World Cups
e) The fucking Intertoto Cup once

Question 4: What percentage of football fans who support other clubs thought Newcastle getting relegated was the funniest thing they'd ever seen?
a) 0%
b) 25%
c) 50%
d) 75%
e) 100%

Question 5: Which of the following statements is true?
a) Newcastle United last won a domestic trophy in 1955
b) Alan Shearer's short spell as manager saw the team pick up five points from a possible 24
c) During a Premier League game at home against Aston Villa on April 2, 2005, Newcastle United were already 3-0 down and down to ten men when Lee Bowyer and Keiron Dyer started knocking the piss out of each other, and both were sent off
d) Then-Newcastle defender Jean-Alain Boumsong was once described in the Observer Sport Monthly as "not so much a weak link at the back as an extra attacker for the opposition"
e) All of the above

If you scored 5 out of 5, you're a Newcastle United expert! Congratulations! You win nothing, just like Newcastle.]

Next to me is Den and his son Chris, and we comment on the stadium and the view from the top tier. The game starts , and for the first few minutes Newcastle look up for it. This appearance soon fades, though, and City take control. In the first half, Leicester manage two half-decent attempts on goal - one from a Steve Howard header, the other a Paul Gallagher free-kick - and Matty Fryatt is presented with a golden opportunity late in the half, which he hacks into the stands.

At the interval, my neighbours and I discuss the goings-on thus far. We're all in agreement - City should be a goal up at least. But they're not.

After half time, the home side look more confident. Seven minutes in, Danny Guthrie takes advantage of some slack defending to blast a straight shot past Chris Weale. The place erupts. Fuck.

The rest of the second half sees a lot of disjointed and incomplete passing, and despite some reshuffling by the manager little actually changes. The referee blows his whistle - two defeats in a week. Den turns to me and asks how I'm getting home. Well, the intention is to catch an overnight coach to London, then one back to Leicester in the morning. Hearing this absurdity, he offers me a seat in his car. Would this be cheating? Yes, it would. Am I going to do it? Yes, I am.

Some time later, we reach the bottom of the stairs, and we hear a lot of noise. It seems Newcastle fans are as classy as Chelsea fans are (id est, not even slightly). The witticisms include "yuz're shit" and, erm... Well to be honest, that's the pick of the bunch. No magnanimity, even in victory, no friendly chat, no basic respect. Just twats. But then I expected nothing less.

A ten minute walk to the car, then, before a three hour drive down the motorway, punctuated only by a brief refilling stop at Wetherby. I try to talk for most of the way, but around Sheffield I detect that what's coming out has turned into weary gibberish. The next thing I know, I'm waking up a few miles from Leicester, and I'm dropped near home some ten hours before expected.

I walk in the door, and I sit down. Even though it's almost 1.45am, I still have time and energy to check other scores. Nothing of any interest there though, so it's off to sleep. Forty-one league games remaining.

Final score: Newcastle 1 Leicester 0
Time: 21 hours
Ticket: £25
Coach tickets: £45.50
Total: £70.50
[*I'm not counting the taxi fare into town, because it's my own fault I had to get a taxi.]

95 reasons to never use Megabus

2009-08-27T06:14:00.006+01:00

August 25th: Preston North End v Leicester City (Carling Cup second round)

I'm woken at 4.15am by the symptoms of what I suspect is a chest infection. This means I'm up four hours earlier than planned, which is a pain in the arse. It appears that I'll need to pack some more things for my trip, the most important being tissues and paracetamol. I have a quick scour of the internet to see if there's any important information I may have missed, but it appears there's nothing new to learn. After a small dose of daytime television (which is, no matter what channel or time of day you watch, unspeakably awful) I leave the house at 10.30. On the trip to the bus station, I make friends with Kim, who just happens to be sitting next to me. A friendly conversation lasts us right into the city centre, and takes my mind off the fact that there are about fifteen more people on this bus than there should be.

I arrive at the station with some minutes to spare and find myself a seat on the Derby coach. Before we leave, we're told that it stops at Loughborough and, for reasons unknown, Kegworth. We never find out these reasons because it turns out it was a lie - it certainly goes through Kegworth but doesn't come close to stopping once. Good. The only interesting thing that has ever happened anywhere near Kegworth was a plane crash, and that was 20 years ago. And it wasn't even really in Kegworth.

I arrive in Derby shortly after 12, have a little wander, am approached by a market researcher ("Do you drink lager at least once a week?" "No, not ever.") and buy some new shoes before finding my way to Derwent Street to catch the 12.50 Transpeak bus which will take me all the way to Manchester. This is, in theory, a 2 hour 55 minute journey. Let's see shall we.

I observe the view out of the window for the first hour of the trip, and this being Derbyshire it's pretty good-looking. The bus passes through Matlock Bath, which appears busier than Derby city centre, then into Matlock. Shortly afterwards, a woman of about 167 gets on the bus, taking a painfully long time to do so. She is then followed by what I assume is her mother, who takes even longer. A woman at the back gets off and I relocate from my original seat. I'm amazed by how much more leg room there is. Shortly after moving, I discover that the man sitting directly in front of me is going to spend the entire journey sneezing. Nice. Two stops later, then, I shuffle over to the other side. A couple of walkers get on and sit a few seats ahead. One of them has a package all wrapped up to keep it safe. On it there is some tape which appears to say 'LE FRAGILE'. Worst French ever.

After another hour or so of the bus working its way through winding Peak District roads under a hot sun, we suddenly hit heavy rain. The girl sitting in front of me jumps as she gets hit by cold rainwater coming in through the window. Over the next few moments, I witness a window-closing frenzy as every window on the bus is slammed shut by the person nearest to it. No sooner is the exercise complete than the rain disappears and we're in sunny weather again.

At this point, I receive an odd text message, from someone who appears to know me but apparently thinks my name is Tony. It isn't.

As the bus approaches High Peak, the rain appears again, as quickly as it did last time. Then as we leave Buxton, sunshine. The bus reaches Disley (Cheshire - my third county of the day) and suddenly we're in a traffic jam which, owing to a small area of roadworks, stretches all the way to Stockport. As a result, the bus doesn't arrive in Manchester until 4.25. No problem though, this still leaves me 35 minutes to find Shudehill Interchange for the 5pm bus to Preston (operated by Megabus no less - booked online for three quid). I arrive at the interchange just before 4.45 and find the one stand from which all coaches depart. Bet that's not confusing.

5pm arrives, and there's no bus. At 5.15, I spot an A4 printed notice telling me that the M11 northwards is running about half an hour late, because of a 'breakdown'. No problem, that'll still see me into Preston for about half past six. 5.30 arrives, still no bus. I go to the customer service window, and I have a phone number passed to me. So I call the number on the card, and ask the girl at the other end how late the bus is going to be.
"No problem, let me just check that for you-" and she hangs up.
I call back, and the man on the other end says he's noted my number down and will call me back. This never happens. At 6pm, I'm starting to get annoyed. At 6.20, I go back to the customer service windows and ask the woman there to find out how late the bus is going to be. After a short phone call, she returns and tells me that "it's over an hour late."
"Yes, I can see that it's over an hour late. I just told you that."

At 6.35 (95 minutes late), the bus finally departs and eventually makes its way into Preston at 7.35. A speedy walk (and a bit of a run) towards the ground gets me outside the turnstile in time to hear the referee's whistle signal the start of the game. Fucking buses.

Inside I find Paul, Janice and Helen - my favourite away match companions - and drop myself into an empty seat next to them. The first half is already under way as I settle in, and very soon a Nicky Adams shot curls over Andy Lonergan in the Preston goal to give City an early lead. (The Addams Family theme tune follows from a section of fans. Get it?) Eight minutes later, a deflected shot from Chris Brown (you know, that singer who beat the piss out of his girlfriend*) flummoxes Chris Weale and levels for the home side. During the first half (which is a good display of football), Helen becomes fixated with the Preston fans as she develops a passionate hatred for one in particular. I can see why - he appears to have spent next to no time watching his team play, preferring instead to gesture randomly at City fans. Fat chav twat.

[*Not really. That was an entirely different Chris Brown. He's also not Olympic 4x400m silver medalist Chris Brown of the Bahamas, nor is he Houston Texans running back Kris Brown.]

At half time, Paul hands me the mug I asked him to pick up from the club shop. Eight fucking quid! Thieving cunts.

[And wouldn't you just know, it's one of those fucking '3-D' ones as well. I'm told there was a cheaper option, but it was ugly. Fair enough, I don't want my collection sullied by the presence of unpleasant tat. Eight quid it is.]

During the break, an infinitely confusing game (?) is played out on the pitch while the stadium announcer reads out some scores. He takes great delight in revealing that Burnley are 1-0 down at Hartlepool, so much so that he has to read it out twice.

Just after the hour, Brown's at it again as he heads PNE's second. Fat Chav Twat is still doing his gesturing thing. The fat chav twat. Helen's simmering hatred of the man appears to have raised her body temperature by about nine degrees. In the last fifteen minutes, City bring on Lloyd Dyer, Paul Dickov and Yann Kermorgant (or, as the stadium announcer called him when announcing the teams, "some Frenchman I can't pronounce", hence the chant from some City fans earlier: "Bring on the Frenchman!"); all of this is to no avail. Dickov's impact on the game is to cut down Liam Chilvers, for which he narrowly escapes a booking, and get flagged offside and subsequently and inexplicably get in a protracted argument with Lonergan. The referee blows his whistle - City are out.

A few minutes later, I part from my trio of friends and start my walk back to the bus station. As I pass the club shop, I find myself talking to an obviously tired middle-aged man and a small blonde woman. Their attire makes it clear that they're staff at the club, and as we walk and talk I learn that Simon is apparently the Deepdale Duck, and Vicky is his helper.

[I don't ask exactly what it is she helps him with; I feel this would be too much information.]

With these two I walk back towards the bus station. We stop off at the shop so the Duck can get a couple of tinnies to neck on the way home. As he makes these crucial purchases, I watch the little tv mounted on the brackets near the counter. I'm watching a news report on the goings-on at West Ham. Apparently the sheer volume of scumbags at a game between two sides from the shitty end of London has caused this game to become a sideshow for a remake of Football Factory (sans cockney twat Danny Dyer, but with loads of other cockney twats thrown in to make up for it). There's a shock.

[The police have to take some of the blame for this one. It was their decision to halve Millwall's ticket allocation to 1500, thereby guaranteeing that Millwall fans would either end up in the home end or turn up without a ticket anyway. What did they think was going to happen - Millwall fans staying at home because they couldn't get a ticket in the 'right' end? No, the ones who were going made the decision to go as soon as the draw paired them with their local rivals - ticket or no ticket. If the police had handled this properly, they could've made things a lot easier for themselves by allowing the ticketing to be done by the people who know what they're fucking doing and thus have all the Millwall fans together, rather than marauding groups of ticketless scumbags in the streets during the game. But no, the police know best.]

I walk the rest of the way to the bus station with the Duck and his helper. As we arrive there, he offers me a little nugget of information: "Did you know this is the biggest bus station in Europe?" He's more amused by this fact than he is proud. Rightly so.

I go looking for a toilet (mostly to get some new tissues - the only explanation I'm giving is to repeat the words 'chest infection'), and nearby I find Alan (see Sheffield United, August 18th), and we have a brief discussion about the game. We meet again a few minutes later on the coach to London but after I make several attempts at conversation (each one interrupted before the first word by a coughing fit) I give up and decide to try to get some sleep. This isn't an easy task though; at Liverpool a large (and very cold) woman gets on and sits - without hesitation - next to me. I wake up at Birmingham to discover I'm sitting on my own. I get off to see if there are any reasonably-priced drinks in the coach station. There aren't, so I get back on the coach. I wake up again around Oxford and find an old bloke is sitting with his legs wide apart, squashing me into a corner and causing me even more pain to my back and legs. I'm not conscious enough to say anything to anyone though, so back to sleep I go, on and off, all the way to London. Worst night's sleep I've ever had.

I wander around Victoria, eyes still sealed shut, trying to freshen up. Not happening. I walk up to Sainsbury's and grab some drinks - something I've desperately needed since about 11pm. Not two yards from the door, I've drained a bottle of Oasis and am halfway through a second. That's woken me up - now for some food. Into the usual place for a simple egg on toast before the 8.30 coach up to Leicester, which gets back for 11am. I arrive home at 11.40, giving me about 20 minutes to wash and dress and get ready for work.

The moral of the story is: Even if you're fucking mental, don't ever use fucking Megabus. Even their name is shit and misleading. There are several descriptions I could give you for this company, and none of them involve the word 'mega' as a standalone adjective. They do, however, all incorporate the word 'cunts'. For example: "Megabus are a useless shower of cunts."

Final score: Preston 2 Leicester 1
Time: 25 hours 10 minutes
Ticket: £10
Coaches: Leicester-Derby £2, Preston-London £10, London-Leicester £9. Total: £21
Buses: Derby-Manchester £6.20, Manchester-Preston £3. Total: £9.20
Total: £40.20

Ghost Town

2009-08-23T09:43:00.004+01:00

August 22nd: Leicester City v Barnsley (Championship)

After three consecutive away matches, finally one that's within walking distance of my sofa. No getting up at 2.30 in the morning, no travelling south to go north/east/west, no ringing up my brother's girlfriend the day before the game to book coach tickets online for me because I can't get the bastard of a website to work.

Nope, today I simply leave the house at 2.20pm, and walk towards the stadium. Wonderful.

Halfway down Saffron Lane, I'm starting to wonder if the game's still on - there are no obvious signs that a second-tier football match is occurring less than a mile away within the next half hour. There's nobody walking down to the game, I can't see an increase in traffic, nothing. It's not until I get almost onto Aylestone Road that I'm reassured. Finally, I see people in blue shirts.

I arrive just in time, and am seated just as the players come out. The starting line-ups are read out - contrary to the team news given out by Sky Sports, Iain Hume starts for Barnsley. He's given a generous applause by the almost empty stadium.

In the first half City perhaps just have the advantage. Barnsley don't look much good really. At half time the family of the late Leicester legend Keith Weller take to the pitch. I can't really hear anything that is said here.

A few minutes into the second half, Richie Wellens knocks a neat ball towards Matty Fryatt, who controls wonderfully to give himself all the time he needs before smashing it past Luke Steele. The 427 City fans inside the Walkers Stadium go semi-berserk. After about ten seconds the new goal music starts - Fire by Kasabian.

[While having a song by Kasabian - a Leicestershire band full of Leicester fans - is an improvement on fucking Chelsea fucking Dagger, I can't help feeling that a complete lack of music would be even better. Football fans do not, should not, need music to celebrate a goal. Telling us how to celebrate is not going to improve the atmosphere. For all the travelling and fucking about at 2am, I much prefer away games. More hardcore fans, hardly any fairweather fans sitting in silence, more singing, and no fucking music when our team scores.]

Late on, Barnsley manage to create a few chances an put a bit of pressure on, but it comes to nothing as City sit out another win. It could have been more comfortable, but it could equally have been a very different result.

As I walk back home towards Saffron Lane, I have one of those chance meetings with someone I've not seen in a few years - this time I bloke I know through work. We discuss the start to the season and manage a couple of sentences about our old jobs before our paths part. As a stroke of fortune, I walk past Tesco just as my brother pulls up, and as he lives near me I get a lift back with him. Just in time, I think my shoes are getting a hole in them.

Final score: Leicester 1 Barnsley 0

Do I need special glasses?

2009-08-19T21:31:00.007+01:00

August 18th: Sheffield United v Leicester City (Championship)

Straight to the station from work, I'm getting the 1804 to Sheffield. Well, technically, I'm getting the 1804 to Derby, then the 1828 from Derby to Sheffield. They're the same train, but I bought the tickets that way because it was £16.50 as opposed to £21.10. Sitting on the platform, several announcements are made about pending trains. The station announcer seems genuinely amazed that a train would go to Cambridge ("The next train arriving on platform two is the Cross Country service to... Cambridge!")

On the train I talk to Krystal, who gets off at Chesterfield and provides interesting conversation for most of the journey. She's pleasant and easy to look at, and gives me one of the best and most sane conversations I've ever had on a football trip (not that there's much competition). Shortly after 7, the train rolls into Sheffield and eventually it's time to start walking. Having been to this ground at least four times previously (each time for a defeat) you'd expect I know my way there without looking. Alas, no, I have to think about it a little. Eventually I remember the way though and I find myself outside the ground looking for the club shop very soon. I find what I'm looking for and quickly locate the mugs. A member of staff soon comes over to help - I like the look of the black ones at the top, but can't reach because I'm not 9'5. He pulls one down, and shows me close up. It's a pound more expensive than the others, so I ask why. The response comes, "Because it's a 3-D one."
"A what?"
"3-D mug."
A three-dimensional drinking vessel? There's an idea. He means, of course, the Sheffield United logo is slightly raised. Why this makes it any more '3-D' than any other mug is beyond me. I opt for a cheaper, equally three-dimensional (and, to be honest, more attractive) mug. I wander out again and start to make my way to the Bramall Lane end.

Inside, I decide to quickly find my seat. Unfortunately, Sheffield United have chosen tonight to adopt an amateurish approach to their seating arrangements and stewarding. I hear the dreaded words 'unreserved seating', which means a mad scramble for whatever seats are available. Happily, I find an alternative seat fairly quickly. Sadly, others do not. About twenty minutes into the game (incidentally, City have dominated so far) tempers are frayed a few rows in front when a couple of City fans are challenged by stewards for standing up in the seated area. They're standing up because there aren't enough seats for everyone to sit down. There aren't enough seats for everyone to sit down because some fucking idiot within Sheffield United Football Club decided on unreserved seating. They made this decision because they're a fucking idiot. Yet the stewards are acting as if the fans are at fault. They aren't. Sheffield United are.

The first half ends without a goal, somehow, despite City's domination. Half time passes with few hitches (apart from people blocking the gangways and bumping into other people) and the players come out for the second half. As Mark Bunn - who played a part in City's successful campaign last season - gets a ripple of applause from the visiting fans.

Seven minutes into the second half, Leicester get a free kick in the United half. The ball is touched right to Matt Oakley, whose low shot is deflected past Bunn by Matty Fryatt. 1-0 to City, and the entire lower tier of the Bramall Lane end goes absolutely mental.

The lead only lasts 14 minutes as Keith Treacy fires in one of those goals that you can't quite believe you've seen. The second it leaves his foot from 25 yards out you know it's in the net. Mark Bunn destroys what respect he had from City fans by celebrating as if he'd just scored the winner in the World Cup final. Cue dog's abuse. The last 25 minutes sees United put a lot of pressure on the City goal but to no avail - we've come out with a decent point.

I arrive back at the coach station well in time for the half past ten service to East Midlands Airport. Here I meet Alan, a man I've seen at several games but have never spoken to at any length. He's a long-time friend of Bob, who I last saw at Shrewsbury. He's also not missed a competitive game in about 15 years, so he's a little way ahead of me. Alan's original plan is to get the coach at 1.20 in the morning to London (where he lives). By my reckoning that gets him home around 7am. Fortunately, he ends up on the same coach as me (removing the need for a two-hour wait) which leaves Sheffield about 15 minutes late. This might be important because timing is going to be crucial at East Midlands Airport - this coach is due in at 23.45, and the Skylink buses to Leicester leave at five to the hour.

[I've said it before, so I won't bore you with an identical rant, but why is the last train back from Sheffield at 21.38? This isn't just absurd, it's beyond useless. There appears to be a bizarre assumption among train companies that nobody wants or needs to go to a city the size of Leicester after about 10pm. Given that we're talking about the tenth-largest city (by population) in the UK, I find this surprising. If it were Grimsby we were talking about, I'd understand.]

As it turns out, we reach EMA at 23.54, far too late for anyone (except perhaps Usain) to get to the stop in time. So an hour's wait is necessary (and, if I say so myself, expertly filled by alternately wandering around the arrivals building, needlessly checking my bank balance and inadvertently breaking seats at the bus stop) and before long I'm getting the 00.55 service back to Leicester. Almost immediately, I fall asleep and don't wake up until the bus is at St Margarets. Now for the fun bit - the walk home. Time check - 1.47am. The best thing to do here is try to beat my time the other night. After five minutes, it appears there's no chance - I'm far too tired to be doing time trials. In the event though, I don't do too badly: the journey is completed in an hour and sixteen minutes. Three hours sleep before work then...

Final score: Sheffield United 1 Leicester 1
Time: 10 hours 2 minutes
Ticket: £19
Train: £16.50
Coach: £12
Bus: £6
Total: £53.50

When can we stop clapping?

2009-08-16T19:49:00.005+01:00

August 15th: Ipswich Town v Leicester City (Championship)

It's not big, it's not clever, and it's not funny. It's 4.36am and I've just left the house to catch a 5.50 coach to London. Why London to go to Ipswich? Because it's cheaper, that's why. Pay attention.

I must be getting better at this walking lark, I manage the trip to the coach station in 63 minutes. As I turn the final corner to the coach station, a poster near the door to a nearby club catches my attention. Now I'm super-excited, because this poster tells me that Danny Dyer (yes, THE Danny Dyer) is doing a DJ set at Liquid in Leicester on August 30th.

I walk up towards the bus station and notice someone putting the magazine and paper stands out. Time to pick up a newspaper then. Well, the Daily Star for the football crossword I never finish (there's always a fucking Rochdale or Grimsby player from the 50s or something that I don't get). As I look for it, I notice that the Sun's headline is GEORGE MICHAEL SHUNTS TRUCKER IN REAR, which makes me laugh. This does not refer to an obscene act in a public toilet this time. It seems he's had a car accident. The first thought of the Sun's headline writer was, naturally, tasteless innuendo. Good.

[Speaking of George Michael, wasn't Last Christmas shit? I mean, all his songs were shit, (Careless Whisper, do you remember that? What a load of wank) but Last Christmas especially so. For a start, 'gev' isn't a word. Also, what the fuck is he on about? How did the recipient of his heart go about giving it away? Anyway, enough about that lying, cottaging, junkie twat.]

I turn around to find a girl dressed in a very bright pink top. She's astoundingly chirpy for 5.45am, as if being up and out at this time was the most natural thing in the world. Shortly I make my way onto the bus and find that somehow she's already sitting on it. No idea how that happened. I take a seat nearby, but something's not right. I don't put my finger on it until I notice I'm sliding forwards. I stand up just in time to see the seat drop to the floor. It's too early in the morning for this shit. I move to the seat opposite, which is directly in front of the girl in pink (who smiles and says hello again) and discover that the armrest is broken. I've no intention of falling into the aisle every time the bus turns right, so I move to the window seat. No footrest. It's going to be a long journey.

Even longer when a load of Czech teenagers get on at Milton Keynes and start to talk loudly. That doesn't last long though, so the next two hours I manage to sleep in severe discomfort. Despite the rest, I'm most displeased. I get off the coach and sit down in the usual place for breakfast, at one point looking round to see the girl in pink behind me. She smiles and waves.

Entering Victoria railway station after breakfast, I notice a large number of a thing you never used to see before about 2003: Chelsea shirts.

[That date has no particular significance. Here is a list of things I am not implying by it:
1. Chelsea didn't have as many fans before a certain Russian criminal (sorry, 'oligarch') bought the Premiership for them.
2. That it's at all suspicious that so many of their fans need to travel by rail to go to a home match.
3. A lot of their current fans had never seen a Chelsea match before they suddenly started buying dozens of world-class players and probably couldn't tell you who Ron Harris or John Neal or Dmitri Kharine or Paul Canoville or Kerry Dixon or Ray Wilkins or Peter Osgood or Pat Nevin or Joey Jones or David Speedie or Ted Drake or Paul Elliott or Eddie Niedzwiecki or Terry Venables or Erland Johnsen or Clive Allen or Peter Bonetti or Clive Walker or Micky Droy or John Hollins or Dave Sexton or John Spencer or Gavin Peacock or Frank Sinclair or Eddie Newton or Dave Beasant or Kevin Hitchcock or Gordon Durie or Tony Dorigo or Nigel Spackman or John Bumstead or Bobby Campbell or Gary Locke or Colin Lee or George Graham are.
I'm definitely not implying that last one. I'm fucking saying it.]

I go for a walk through the surrounding streets, and at one point a French family approach and I find myself being asked "Excuse me, you are English?"
"Yes, but not from London," I reply, knowing what's coming.
Despite this, the man doing the talking continues: "Do you know which way is Buckingham Palace?"
Well, if it weren't for that sign right above your head...

After some more wandering about (and several more oddly coincidental meetings with the girl in pink, who on each occasion smiles and waves), and asking two people presumably employed by TfL whether my ticket included the required tube ride to Liverpool Street (neither had a clue; one thought possibly, the other leaned more towards probably not but chose not to commit. In the event, the answer was no), I buy a Travelcard and make my way down to the eastbound platform for the Circle Line. At this time of day, each train is so crowded that every minute on one feels like 25 years. If you haven't gathered from previous posts, I hate travelling by tube. Especially when there's some weirdo in a mask standing a few feet away.

I sit down for a bit at Liverpool Street and watch as people go past. I note several football shirts going past, mostly fucking Chelsea again, but also a West Ham shirt, a few Torquay, and three Ipswich. At 12.45, I stroll over to platform 9 to board the 1300 train. By chance, I sit down opposite one of the Ipswich shirts I saw earlier. This, as it happens, makes the journey go a lot quicker because the Town fan inside it knows football. Mostly Ipswich, but it's still good to have a conversation.

From a distance, Portman Road looks a relatively impressive venue. I think I might be looking at it from the perspective of a fan who's been to too many Division Three grounds. Up close, it's not too shabby either, from the outside.

[Comparing Portman Road to the last ground I visited - Moss Rose, Macclesfield, if you're too lazy to look back - the club shop is easily located and is filled with overpriced tat with the Ipswich Town logo on it as opposed to a rack of shirts in a hidden room, the main stand doesn't look like it could fall down at any second, and the away turnstiles don't have "John = Pedo" sprayed on in red paint.]

At 2.25, I'm inside the club shop and have quickly located an acceptable mug for my collection. With tangible dismay, I notice the queue is about eleven miles long. Nonetheless, I decide to sit it out and position myself at the back of the long line. A few minutes (and a pleasingly large number of feet) later, I see a woman of about 119 attempt to barge into the queue about two places ahead. Realising that she's going to be caught out, she retreats, only to try the same thing a couple of spaces behind me. This time, success. She's pushed in to the tune of about eight places with none of the people behind noticing a thing. Old fuckers get away with everything.

Eventually I get to the till and after paying for my mug and a badge, the thoroughly pleasant girl serving asks if I have a season ticket and fixture list. I leave it to her colleague to point out that I probably won't need either.

Outside again, I have a look at the mass of tributes left for the late Sir Bobby Robson. All along the railings are flags and shirts from different clubs' fans bearing a variety of messages. Always a sad sight but good to see at the same time.

Having timed the day so tightly (by my standards) it's time to get inside. As soon as I'm past the turnstile, it becomes clear that this ground's interior isn't nearly as impressive as it is exterior. I climb the stairs and despite the signs I manage to find my way up to my seat, where I find precisely no leg room. In what seems like a flash, the players are out and... we're doing another minute's applause for Sir Bobby.

[Now, I don't want to come across as tactless, because there's no doubt whatsoever that he was a great man as well as a great football man. But can we leave the poor bastard alone now? That's the third time I've been asked to do a minute's applause for the same man. At this rate I estimate that by the end of the season people will have clapped for a total of forty-five billion years in his memory. Just stop it. It's getting to the point where it's bordering on taking the piss.]

Early in the game, other than Wayne Brown heading over against his first club, the only incident of note is a clearly drunk bloke getting escorted out with his kid. There you go mate, you've fucked up your son's day by getting pissed up. Hope you're proud of yourself.

In the first half, City have the better chances but take none of them. Brown and debutant Robbie Neilson make a mistake apiece, but neither is punished. Five times I have to stand up to let people past so they can go to the (apparently awful) toilets. Have they all been on the piss? Half time comes and it's 0-0. And the home fans haven't made a sound.

At half time, the stadium announcer mumbles some scores (at one point claiming Exeter are beating Norwich, which they aren't) and that's about it.

On 53 minutes, City's Richie Wellens is shown a card which is clearly red. Everyone around me thinks the same thing, including the police officer standing to our left, but nobody else in the ground bats an eyelid. The game carried on as if the card had been yellow. Amazing.

The second half is much like the first, only perhaps more one-sided in City's favour, but still no breakthrough comes. The game ends goalless. And the home fans still haven't made a sound.

Back at the station, there's a face I recognise. It's the pissed-up bloke who got chucked out after 15 minutes, and following him around is his kid. He's now shitfaced, having spent most of the game in the pub. Upon seeing some police, he tries to blame them and the stewards for his own cuntish actions which resulted in his son going home having seen quarter of an hour of football. Twat.

As I sit waiting for the 1811 train back to Liverpool Street, another oddball sits down in the seat to my right and starts talking in my direction. I nod a couple of times, offer him a 'yeah', and wait for him to drift away. Which, to his credit, he does. Bizarre man though.

On the train back, I get involved in a conversation with a couple of Ipswich fans from Ireland (?) and their companion, a QPR fan. There is a connection, but it's too much to go into. They're nice enough people anyway, and Jim (the older Ipswich fan) explains how he became a fan of the club back in the 70s.

Again, the journey goes quickly and soon I find myself talking to Carl on the tube. He's a Colchester fan (who lives in Sussex) and is understandably delighted that they've kicked off with two wins. He's almost as happy about Matt Heath (who he describes as "fucking terrible") being on loan at Southend. It turns out we just got off the same train and are both getting off at the same stop, so all the way back to Victoria we talk about today's games and various other football-related things. The subject of travel times inevitably comes up, so I have to tell him about some of the things I've done... Before we separate, he calls me "fuckin' mad" for my journeys. A compliment, I feel, from someone who travels three hours to get to home games.

At 8.45, the 440 starts to board. I find myself a seat about halfway back and settle in. For a few minutes I look around me. I notice the couple opposite are eating something that smells very good, especially to someone who's only had a couple of chicken sandwiches all day. Ten minutes later, the coach is almost full when a woman gets on and selects the seat next to me. She sits down, then decides her briefcase needs to go in the overhead luggage rack. She sits again. Then, obviously uncomfortable, she gets up and removes the rucksack on her back before sitting down a third time. She stands again, and rearranges her things before moving forward and sitting in the seat in front. I look across at the man opposite, who grins at me, leans over and says "Strange innit?" This cracks me up.

For the first hour of the journey, I talk to Simon and find out a few things. He's Ghanaian, he lives in Leicester, and the food he and his other half were eating was fish and rice. That sounds good, and now I'm twice as hungry as before. This is the first non-football conversation I've had today, but easily one of the best.

The next thing I know, it's 11.25 and the coach is pulling into St Margaret's station. As we all alight, I shake my new friend's hand and start my walk. I'm tired and very hungry. Home feels a long way away. Had a good day though. Roll on Tuesday night.

Final score: Ipswich 0 Leicester 0
Time: 19 hours 28 minutes
Ticket: £31 (thieving cunts)
Coach: £19
Train: £26
Travelcard: £5.60
Total: £81.60

Where the fuck's the shop?

2009-08-13T09:23:00.002+01:00

August 12th: Macclesfield Town v Leicester City (Carling Cup first round)

I was on the internet last night, working out my trip. This, for me, is leaving it late. I've usually got these things planned out several weeks in advance. Nonetheless, I think I've got a pretty good result out of it.

The first bus of the day arrives at 10.30, well in time to catch the 11.15 coach to Derby. The driver, however, is under the impression that nobody on the bus has anywhere to go, and crawls as slowly as possible all the way into the city centre. To kill the time, I talk to the orange-faced girl to my left. She's friendly enough, but I can't look directly at her and maintain a straight face because she's the colour of an oompah-loompah.

Despite the best efforts of that driver, I arrive at the bus station four minutes before the coach is due to leave. Just in time to see a young man in a black knee-length pleated skirt board the same coach. Nice...

Shortly after 12, it's time to alight at Derby, and I head straight into tourist information and speak to Collette. She gives me details about the buses between here and Macclesfield, and ribs me for wearing a Leicester shirt.

[I knew I'd have to change in our near Ashbourne, but here's the problem I have: the website I looked on last night disagrees with the timetable I printed off, and both disagree with the website Collette looks at. Of course.]

As I have two hours to kill, I wander around Derby city centre for a bit. I notice people queueing out of the door of Greggs, which is inexplicable given the standard of food they serve. I walk a bit further and somehow get involved in a conversation with another Leicester fan and his much younger female companion, who is a Derby fan. I have no idea what the nature of their relationship is, but I'm really not that interested. He, a man easily in his fifties, is drinking some fizzy (non-alcoholic) drink out of a can and talking towards me in a gravelly voice and a Leicester accent. She, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, has eleven teeth. They're clearly not educated people. At one point, he burps and makes no effort to cover his mouth. Shortly afterwards I terminate the discussion and head to Tesco, but not before hearing about some Forest fans getting "fookin' battered". This, friends, is the thing about wearing football shirts in other towns - you're always singled out by the dickheads for conversations you don't want to have.

I find a cafe in a side street and order a breakfast, even though it's nearly 2pm. It's not that I'm in a particularly breakfasty mood, it's just that everything else on the menu looks a bit shite. I sit down and take FourFourTwo out of my bag. While reading, I find that the magazine has discovered a new meaning for the word 'unique', and have used it in the following sentence:

"There are also new shirt sponsors at Bristol Rovers following a unique raffle where firms were invited, at £1,000 a pop, to enter."

This could be confusing for anyone who uses the traditional definition of 'unique' and is aware that King's Lynn did exactly the same thing this season. I know they did, because I was there when they made the draw.

After a greasy breakfast I would describe simply as edible, I find the bus stop from which the next section of my journey departs. The bus to Ashbourne is The One apparently. Not the number 1 bus, but The One. After a more or less direct ride to Ashbourne (and quick trip to some of the most evil-smelling toilets in the whole of Derbyshire), I have another little wander to kill the 20 minutes before the 108 to Macclesfield. As I return to the bus station, a man stumbles into my vicinity asks me where the tourist information place is. I look up at the nearby sign pointing to something called 'Tourist Information' and, feeling in a helpful mood, I explain politely that I'm not a local and as such cannot help. He continues talking, but not to me. As he walks off towards the town centre, he's thoroughly engrossed in a somewhat involved conversation with himself.

I wait until 3.25, the stated departure time for the 108 to Macclesfield, and talk to an old couple. A bus approaches, and the woman says enthusiastically "this is your bus here, this one look". I wonder for a moment why the 108 to Macclesfield would have '442 Ashbourne' on the front, before she changes her mind: "Oh it's not is it, no. That's not it." Oh, is it not? Thanks.

Ten minutes later the real 108 turns up (cleverly disguised as the 108 to Macclesfield), and I settle into a seat at the back. Very soon the bus is out of the town and into the countryside. As the route snakes through the narrow roads I look up from the magazine I'm reading and just stare. The scenery is unbelievable. There are few places in this country more satisfying to travel through than this part of Derbyshire. Looking out of the bus in any direction I feel I can see for miles, and it's stunning. For the thirty-seventh time this season already, I am reminded that I still haven't bought a camera, and quietly mumble a short series of swearwords to myself.

As the bus enters Leek town centre, I receive a text message:

"Shevchenko to Leicester, season long loan."

Yes, of course.

At 4.45, the bus passes Moss Rose and I get off at the next stop. I wander back towards the ground and try to figure out (also spelled: guess) what's where. I walk up the side of the Silk FM Main Stand (on the east side of the ground) and just find an unmanned open door for players and officials and so on, so I walk back to where I started. As I stroll along, looking at the paint peeling off the main stand, I spot two men getting out of a car. Instantly I recognise them as Radio Leicester's Ian Stringer and John Sinclair. Stringer surprises me by initiating conversation, so I ask him where he thinks the club shop is. Within a few moments the three of us have walked back along the main stand, down an alleyway and are suddenly among the seats. I don't think it's here. As a trio, we walk round to the opposite stand, chatting away, but eventually part ways as they disappear into a door I didn't even see until they were gone.

Back and forth I go, looking for something resembling a club shop, but to no avail. I walk back to the main road and decide to phone the club, and discover that the shop won't be open until 6pm (another hour then) and tickets won't be sold until the turnstiles are actually open.

So I walk into the town centre. Someone on the bus told me it was a five minute walk, and this was inaccurate. Twenty minutes later, I reach the centre, before I decide there's fuck all to do there anyway, and walk back. Killed some time so I'm not complaining. Halfway back up to the ground, a Macclesfield fan attaches himself to me and we have a very enjoyable conversation about football away trips. Another Town fan passes us in the other direction, at which point my new friend looks back and then at me. He indicates the other fan with a nod: "you see that bloke who just went past?"
I look back. "Yeah, you know him?"
"Oh yeah. He went to over 1,200 games in a row. He only missed one because his wife had a baby. He's still only missed two now."
I look back again. I do some rough calculations - that's about 24 seasons of watching Macclesfield Town. Without missing a single game. Not one. I shake my head, and go looking for the club shop again.

Eventually, I discover that to access the club shop you need to press a buzzer next to an unmarked door, walk up some stairs, open another unmarked door (at this point it very much feels like you're breaking into the club) and guess which of the many new unmarked doors to go through. I look at the choices and imagine a surreal little gameshow in my head:

"Behind one of these doors, you can buy Macclesfield Town-branded tat. Behind another, a confidential board meeting. Behind another, a girl on work experience getting worked over by one of the coaching staff..."

I go left. Wrong. As the office girl pulls her knickers back up... Not really. But left was wrong. I should've gone right. Finally, the club shop. Sort of. I see shirts, and footballs, and... that's it. No badges, no mugs. Nowt. I speak to the woman in there and she pulls aside a passing colleague, who leads me out of the 'shop' and into an office, where she pulls a plastic bag out from under her desk and rummages through it. After a minute or so, she pulls out two badges. Result.

Outside, I walk back round to the away end terrace and just wait. I talk to people I recognise, and some I don't, and just wait. At 6.15, a small group of people start looking at their watches, apparently having been told the gates would be open by now. Fifteen minutes later, more people have arrived and more are annoyed that the gates aren't open yet. At 6.45 (the time I was given) the gates are still shut as Paul and Helen arrive. They finally open at just after 7pm, 45 minutes after some people said they'd be open. Despite this, nobody makes even the slightest move for the entrance, so I'm the first one in. My companions for the evening purchase hot dogs and we walk up the steps and onto the terrace. Paul pulls his out of the bag and tries, inexplicably, to hold it between his fingers while opening a sachet of ketchup. Predictably, it ends up at his feet. Twat.

The first half of the game is entertaining, with City creating a few chances at the far end. Helen and I entertain ourselves with random chatter, but mostly we concentrate on the game. The first half comes to an end at 0-0. And it's still not raining.

In the 58th minute, Dany N'Guessan backheels his second competitive goal for the club; finally the home side have caved. Perhaps the goalkeeper's been distracted - someone's brought toilet paper and is throwing it into the goalmouth. 20 minutes from the end, Matty Fryatt smashes a left-foot shot into the roof of the goal, dissolving any possibility of extra time. In the final minutes City have a few chances to put a gloss on the scoreline, but 2-0 is job done.

Outside the ground I mean Alan, who has generously agreed to give me a lift back home. Otherwise I would have had a convoluted (and very, very long) trip. And you all know how much I hate those...

In the first half hour after we set off, I learn two pieces of upsetting news. Firstly, Alan tells me that a mutual friend, Andy, is no longer coming to games. This wouldn't be such a big deal, but for the fact that I can't remember the last game I went to where I didn't see Andy. Tonight is the first time in a while. This saddens me. The second piece of news is the draw for the second round. Preston away on a fucking weeknight? Fucking Football League.

[Still, it could be worse. Look at some of the other fixtures:
Bristol City v Carlisle
Gillingham v Blackburn
Swansea v Scunthorpe
Hull v Southend
All to be played midweek.]

After a two-hour drive back in the dark, Alan drops me off more or less at my front door. I get inside at a quarter to midnight and have a little time to contemplate a long season of trips like this. I can't fucking wait.

Final score: Macclesfield 0 Leicester 2
Time: 13 hours 15 minutes
Ticket: £12
Coach to Derby: £2
Bus total: £6.10
Total: £20.10

Train to nowhere

2009-08-09T09:34:00.003+01:00

August 8th: Leicester City v Swansea City (Championship)

You know scumbags are about when you see police escorting a horde of 'fans' to the stadium. If you ask any legitimate Swansea fan, you'll find out that there's a large number of lowlifes who attach themselves to the team in order to follow them around and cause trouble in as many places as possible.

[I distinguish between legitimate fans and these other cunts because it's necessary. Swansea, like any other club, do have legitimate fans. But they do have a large percentage of the sort of twat who just goes wherever the team happens to be as an excuse to act like the twats that everyone else knows they are. It's not just Swansea who have this problem, there are several clubs who still get this sort of bullshit. I've said something similar before, but it still needs saying: You are not Swansea fans. You are cunts. Fuck off away from our game.]

I send a text to Paul, who's giving some dogs a lift or something*, and find that he's having a little trouble with the traffic situation, caused mostly by the roadworks going on on Saffron Lane, which is a lot of people's route to the stadium.

[*No idea.]

[Yes, two sets of parentheses in a row, aren't you lucky children today. The outbound half of Saffron Lane has been closed since early July for some sort of 'improvement' - and let's take that word with a hefty handful of salt. This has caused, among other things, several bus routes to take a detour of approximately fourteen miles. Why the roadworks? What 'improvements' are actually being made? And why now, clashing perfectly with the start of the football season, when the council presumably know people will need to use this road? Amazingly, the works were suspended for - get this - the Special Olympics GB. Now, I'm all in favour of the Special Olympics movement, it's a great idea, but how many people do you think really watched it? Was it close to the 26,000-plus that LCFC have been expecting for today's game? No, probably not.]

There's a buzz around the stadium. There are certainly more people here than usual. They'll probably disappear as the season goes on. I get into the ground and look out at the pitch, and at the stands. People everywhere. In the run-up to kick-off there's the usual shite, plus Birch encouraging the Kop to hold up a large flag showing their support for the England 2018 World Cup bid.

[Originally, when the FA's bid for the World Cup was announced, I was firmly in the "couldn't give a flying pissdrop" camp. But now, having thought about it, I have reasons for supporting the bid:
1. The possibility of World Cup games within walking distance of where I live.
2. Lots and lots of foreigners in partying mood.
3. It's something Scotland and Wales have never been able to do, nor will they ever.
4. It's the World Cup for fuck's sake! How many reasons do you need?
Even as someone who finds international football tedious (and quite honestly couldn't give two fucks about the fortunes of the England team) I love the World Cup. It'd be great to have a game like Brazil v Germany here, but as long as Sweden qualify I'll be happy. And Iran. And Argentina. And Brazil. Definitely Brazil. And Ghana. And Portugal. And Trinidad and Tobago. But not Wales.]

Before the game, there's another minute's applause for Sir Bobby. Two games in a row, not many people would get that. Seventeen minutes into the game, Swansea get a corner, and Ashley Williams smashes it into the net to put the foreigners in front. Swansea control most of the first half, with Nathan Dyer looking especially annoying. The teams go off at half-time, and on comes the Birch to watch some more kids run around the pitch for no reason. On too goes my iPod in order to drown out the scores in anticipation of the present the BBC has given us for the new season - the Football League Show.

The players come out for the second half, although two blue shirts have changed. Andy King and Matty Fryatt have been removed and replaced by new boys Dany N'Guessan (pronounced by the announcer as 'Ungooson') and Martyn Waghorn, who we've borrowed from Sunderland. A few minutes into the second half, Bruno Berner is tripped by Williams in the Swansea box, and Steve Howard steps up to hit the penalty tamely at Dorus de Vries' hands. Still 1-0.

On 69, a shot from a very lively Waghorn deflects into the bottom corner: 1-1. Three minutes later, City get a corner. From a resulting knockdown, N'Guessan fires his new side into the lead to complete an extraordinarily quick turnaround. After a tense finish, the City fans can celebrate three points to start the season off nicely. The iPod goes back on just in time, although I do hear a massive reaction to one scoreline. That's going to torture me, I know it is.

I eventually get home around the 6pm mark, but soon discover I have nothing to kill the next five and three quarter hours with. I flick the tv for a while, watch West Brom v Newcastle and then manage to take in a couple of good repeats of shows I missed the first time.

But after exhausting all seven channels that are ever worth watching, I find it's still only 8pm. I can't go on the internet because I'm almost certain to find out a load of scores by accident. I flick FIFA09 on, then quickly off again because it's not very entertaining. For the next three and a half hours, I alternate between twiddling my thumbs, napping and watching old episodes of Red Dwarf on Dave. Time feels like it's standing still, this is unbearable.

At 11pm, more or less exactly, my mobile starts buzzing: 1 message received. Do I check it and risk finding out a result I don't want to know? Or can I afford not to answer it? Well, curiosity gets the better of me almost instantly, and I open it. In one of those surreal, not-quite-sure-it's-real moments, I read the message, from someone who shall remain nameless, which reads as follows:

"Shit, fell asleep on the train, I'm in Wakefield!"

I should feel guilty about my reaction (laughing uncontrollably for about a minute), but, alas, I don't. Haha, Wakefield.

[Fortunately the person in question soon contacts someone who lives in Leeds and scores himself a bed for the night. But still: twat.]

Finally, 11.45 is here, and... Ian Holloway is on my screen. The lunatic. Within a few seconds, he's told us his team's result. Thanks Ian.

The new show has got a decent format but, sadly, is nothing like Match of the Day. Eventually we reach the game which got the big reaction earlier: Norwich v Colchester. The first clip shows Kevin Lisbie taking advantage of a disastrous ball from John Otsemobor to tap the ball in. 1-0 Colchester. Within a few moments I've seen a further four Colchester goals, all at the same end. Then Norwich get one back, before the Us bag another two. Final score, Norwich 1 Colchester 7. This, whichever way you look at it, is an astounding result. And that's without Stephen Hughes playing.

Thoroughly satisfied with just about everything I've seen today, I'm ready to retire. But not in Leeds.

Final score: Leicester 2 Swansea 1

[As I post, a petition concerning Wrexham Football Club has come to my attention. For details read this thread and to sign click here and follow the simple instructions. This is important enough to be mentioned here so have a look. Ta.]

I hate the fucking Fratellis

2009-08-02T19:48:00.004+01:00

August 2nd: Leicester City v Real Valladolid (Friendly)

The last game before the season begins. The real football is six days away. Today, we are being visited by La Liga's Real Valladolid. This, apparently, is our glamour friendly - a home game against the team who finished 16th in Spain last season. Yes, the Sunderland of Spanish football.

The club have put together a 'family day' (whatever one of those is) before the game, so this is an ideal opportunity to take the offspring to her first Walkers Stadium game. As we arrive at the ground (alongside Paul, Janice and Helen) it becomes obvious that the 'family day' consists of a couple of bouncy castles and two vans purveying ice cream and burgers. Seems a bit lazy and, quite honestly, shit. I should mention that my child is quite capable of polishing off any amount of food you care to present her with, as long as it doesn't have mushrooms in it, so I'm slightly worried when I see her eyeing up the ice cream van. As it happens, this is as expensive as any ice cream anywhere in the world, but it's alright because everything else about today has been so cheap. Afterwards, we make our way into the ground at about 2pm.

After an hour of soaking in the completely non-existent atmosphere, the players come out. Before the game starts, a minute's applause is observed for Sir Bobby Robson, who died this week at 76.

[Sir Bobby had a massive influence on the game in this country and others, and on hundreds of careers. You only have to listen to someone who worked with him talk about the man for a few minutes to realise what a major impact he had on more or less everyone with whom he came into professional and social contact. It's not hyperbolic to say that Sir Bobby was one of the greatest football people to have ever been, and this is a sad week for football. Cheers Bobby.]

The first half is pretty much what you'd expect from a pre-season friendly - a few chances but mostly just an exercise for players to get fit and tuned up for the season. Not a lot happens, other than the couple a few seats over each taking one of their children to the toilet, at separate times of course, necessitating me standing up twice. Bastards.

We move at half time, up to where Paul is sitting (it seems at some point he got sick of Helen talking about the Valladolid defenders) and from there we watch the pointless relay race around the pitch. The second half merely occurs, and five minutes from the end Matty Fryatt snatches the only goal of the game. Immediately afterwards, as if designed to stop my celebration in its tracks, Chelsea fucking Dagger plays at full blast.

[Why are we still playing this fucking awful song that has no connection to either Leicester City Football Club or the scoring of a goal. It should not be played, ever, at our stadium. And while I'm at it, why the FUCK do we have to listen to the fuck-awful Robbie Williams' fuck-awful song Let Me Entertain You before every fucking single fucking home game? The man's not only a cunt and shit singer, but he's also a known fan of another, reasonably local, club. And a cunt.]

Finally out of the stadium, I take Maniac Junior on the 40-minute walk back home (stopping for drinks - don't want her dropping half way), explaining on the way why Max Gradel had different colour boots to the rest of the team.

My stopwatch says six days left. Bring it on.

Final score: Leicester 1 Valladolid 0
Ticket: £10

[Extra cost of taking the kid: £6. That's ticket at £2, drink at £1.50 and ice cream at an absolutely fucking absurd £2.50. Overall, despite the ice cream, something of a bargain.],

Late arrival

2009-07-29T23:52:00.002+01:00

July 29th: Oadby Town v Leicester City XI

This game is so near to where I live, I've got time to go home from work and change there, and perhaps even grab something to eat. After doing those things, it's back out the door.

My plan is to get the 88 into the city centre, then the 31A into Oadby, which drops me round the corner from the, er, stadium. The first bus stinks of piss. Disgusting. The second bus is full of people. I'm one of those people who assumes everyone else to be a complete moron, and most of the time this assumption is quite correct. I walk to the very back, where the only available seats are, and as I do I knock a woman's paper. Despite her annoyed look, it's not my fault, she shouldn't be sticking out so far into the aisle. Two stops later, it happens to her again. How did she not learn the first time? At every single stop on the way to Oadby, someone really slow or stupid or old or all three gets on, taking as long as possible to complete one of the simplest transactions known to man. And of course at each of these stops, some other slow / stupid / old fuckers alight, which only serves to double the time I spend fantasising about smacking them in the face. I notice that the idiot woman is reading the Leicester Mercury job section. Therein, I spot a headline: "There's still jobs, despite slump". Presumably this should have read "I still have a job, despite my inability to assemble a remotely grammatically correct sentence".

I eventually arrive at Greene King Park (I know, I know) about six minutes before kick-off. I'm informed that entrance is £5, and a programme is £1.50. Programmes are pointless, so as I fish a ten pound note out of my wallet, I clearly mention that a programme is not required. Nonetheless, I am presented with a programme and £3.50 change. I'm all for non-league clubs making money, but sometimes wish they wouldn't take the piss.

The rain that started sometime in the last century is still going. It's not as if I can get any wetter, so I go and stand near the dugouts - no cover. Within a minute of the game starting, Robbie Burns puts City in front. A very long time later, the goalscorer is announced. At more or less exactly the same time, City score a second through Craig King. City's third comes when DJ Campbell slots home after a goalkeeper error, and a fourth is bagged by King before the half is over. I feel like I'm in a cold shower.

I wander up to the clubhouse and inside I find a table labelled 'Club Shop'. Behind this table is a very young girl, so I ask her if she's in charge. She is, she assures me, while her older sister is at the burger van, but after a quick look at the miscellaneous shit on the table I make the decision not to do business with a toddler.

Hungry, I decide a hot dog is in order. What a decision that is, the freshly-cooked sausages are superb. A relative bargain at two quid as well. Here I also meet the manager of the club shop, 10-year-old Chloe. I tell her that her deputy is doing a stellar job looking after all the tat that's on sale. Perhaps omitting the word 'tat'. But it is tat.

The second half begins, and City hit the woodwork three times in the first eight minutes. I'm starting to think that I really am affecting teams' ability to score five goals. That concern (that I just made up) disappears when City do finally get a fifth, and ten minutes from the end another is added. Throughout the second half, the rain has been getting steadily heavier. I'm pretty sure everything I'm wearing is now sopping wet.

Luckily, my sister lives only a couple of minutes' walk from here, so I take a short walk up there and dry off a bit before getting myself a lift home. One more game to go before the season starts...

Oadby Town 0 Leicester City XI 6
Admission: £5
Programme*: £1.50
Bus to Oadby: £2.10
Total: £8.60

*Even though I wouldn't normally count a programme in the cost of going to football, I have on this occasion simply because I was sold it despite not wanting it. In other words: this expense was forced upon me, therefore it counts.

Early arrival

2009-07-29T22:47:00.002+01:00

July 28th: Chesterfield v Leicester City (Friendly)

Another night game tonight, so it's straight from work again. I just miss the bus as I come out the front door, so I walk down to Melton Road to catch another bus. Ten minutes later, I'm still standing at the bus stop. An ambulance sits a bit further up, holding up traffic as a shitfaced bloke is peeled off the pavement. Arsehole.

On the bus, finally, I take a seat at the back and look forward to a few moments of quiet after a long day at work. Unfortunately, this isn't about to happen because a couple of stops later a man gets on who appears to have had one too many, then carried on drinking for several hours. For the rest of the trip, he noisily berates a nearby woman for something (I'm not sure what exactly, but the word 'racist' is mentioned at least five times).

The Sheffield train arrives and departs exactly on time, and I take a seat next to a young dark-haired woman who obviously adopts an immediate and immense dislike of me. I sit in silence with my iPod, even offering to turn it down if it's too loud. "No it's ok," she says, in a tone that suggests it's really not. I turn it down anyway. At Derby, she gets off. Good. Fuck off.

As I go to get off, a man behind me starts a conversation. Fair enough, got nothing better to do. As we step onto the platform, he says "I hope you haven't come for the game."
"Erm..." I'm dressed as I usually am, that is to say that I'm obviously a football fan on his way to a game.
"Because it's tomorrow."
No it fucking isn't. "Is it?"
"Yeah I'm thinking of going." Not tomorrow you're not.
"Well I've come to see the spire anyway."
"Really?"
No you fucking idiot, I've come for the game, which is tonight. "No, I've come for the game. It's tonight."
"Is it?"
"Yes. I arrange my life around these things. It's tonight."
"Oh..."
"Yeah."
"I might not be able to go then..."
I couldn't give two fucks really.

The ground is seventeen minutes' walk away. Well, it is if you stop to pick up food and wipe rain from your face. I pay a visit to the club shop (you know what I'm buying by now), and then wander round to the away end. I think I'll stand tonight. For one, I prefer to stand at football. Secondly, it's two quid cheaper. No-brainer really. Just before I enter, I pass the burger stand selling ponchos. No thanks, I'm wet already.

I find myself a spot behind the goal just before kick-off. My flag, my shirt, my hair and my face are now completely drenched. And it's cold. The rain is still coming down, and it's not getting warmer. Fifteen minutes into the game, the poncho seller approaches. Bit late for that mate. The first half passes with little more than banter between players and fans, and there's no real incident of which to speak. At one point, I pay £1.70 for a shitty Bovril, and instantly regret it.

At half time, there's a brief let-up in the rain. Right on cue, the wind picks up speed and gives everyone pneumonia. Three hours later (might be an exaggeration) the players return to the field. Even less happens in the second half until the 86th minute, when Dany N'Guessan finds himself one-on-one with Mark 'Older Than Time' Crossley and smashes the winner past the ex-Tree goalie. Far more entertaining are the noises coming from those around me. In the context, very funny.

Fortunately, I've been offered a lift home. Knowing that I'll most likely miss the 21.54 train, I accept. All the way home, I feel like something of a cheat, but I don't care - I'll never ever sleep in Chesterfield. Ever.

Final score: Chesterfield 0 Leicester 1
Time: 6 hours 35 minutes
Ticket: £10
Train: £17.30
Total: £27.30

Two weeks to go

2009-07-25T22:05:00.004+01:00

July 25th: Shrewsbury Town v Leicester City (Friendly)

It's a sunny Saturday morning at 10.22, and the train to Birmingham has just left South Wigston station. I've had a good breakfast, I'm wide awake, I've got my flag with me. Nothing can ruin this mood I'm in.

Except some bastards talking loudly on a train. In high voices. In a foreign language.

At Hinckley, some more twats get on. I ignore them and turn my attention to the playlist I arranged on my iPod last night. I can still hear them, I need to turn it up. That's better. Until five minutes later, when the first group of bastards suddenly starts talking much louder. I picture throwing them out of a moving train, and have a little private chuckle as I select an appropriate door.

There are also other City fans further up the train, but they're not people I socialise with so I'm not going to start now.

At Nuneaton, a load of people in black and white striped shirts get off - obviously football fans. I catch sight of a badge as one walks past and ascertain that they're Corby Town fans. Corby's a shithole.

Some time after 11, we arrive in Birmingham, and I make the decision to take the next train to Shrewsbury. I arrive on the platform and see Bernie squinting at the screen. As I stand there in my Leicester City shirt and with a Leicester City flag draped over me, he takes his eyes off the screen to ask "Are we on the right platform?" No, Bernie, we're not. Even though the screen I've just seen you stare at for the last forty seconds lists, quite clearly, 'SHREWSBURY' among the related train's stops, even though I'm standing here looking like the LCFC club shop has vomited on me, even though there are another six Leicester fans standing on the same platform, I suspect we've got this one wrong.

[Mad as a bag of snakes that bloke, but I'd not change anything about him. Except maybe by giving him some deodorant. Carry on Bernie.]

I sit at one of the tables on the train and moments later, a woman sits down with her two kids. We start with polite chat, during which I find out she's going on holiday to Rhyl (I've never understood this phenomenon). I explain that I'm on my way to the game. Then she asks "Who do you support?" Good question. After some more polite chat, she happens to mention that her nephew plays for West Brom. Seeing the look on my face, she clarifies: her nephew is Luke Moore. I take it that means she's ex-Leicester loanee Stefan Moore's auntie too. About 50 minutes after getting on the train, we hear that it's approaching Shrewsbury station.
"Time to get off Bernie."
"Is this it?"
"Yes Bernie."
"Is this Shrewsbury?"
"Yes it is Bernie."

As I come out of the station, a young bloke with a Shrewsbury Town t-shirt comes out at the same time. This seems inconsequential. I make my way to the bus station, armed with a scribbled list of buses which go past the stadium. As I wander around, another young lad in a replica shirt starts to talk to me. He seems harmless enough, and he also seems to be the only member of his group of about six who supports Shrewsbury. He chats away about the Shrews' ins and outs of the summer (including the most recent one - the sale yesterday of Grant Holt to Norwich). He also gives me helpful information about the buses.

Shortly after 1 o'clock, I run into him again. We end up getting the same bus, and we pass Bernie (walking) along the way and after we alight he points me in the direction of the stadium. So I walk in that direction and eventually find New Meadow (I'm not using that other name).

[Incidentally, the claim that the 25 stops near the stadium is slightly stretching the truth. Only slightly, but still...]

I arrive at the ground at the same time Matty Fryatt turns up. Not being 'one of those' fans, I just give him a thumbs up and carry on towards the club shop. Inside, I grab myself an STFC badge (new obsession number 1) and an STFC mug (new obsession number 2) for under a tenner. Bargain.

Being one of the first people in the stadium makes you feel like a sad fucker. Never mind. I have time to eat the chicken sandwiches I made before I left the house this morning, and take in the view. And what a view this is. I reckon New Meadow is near the top of the list here. From where I sit, the view of the pitch is superb; in the distance, impressive countryside. Some of it's Wales though. In the hour and a half before kick-off, I locate several regulars and converse to pass the time. Among these is Bob, who has travelled up from his home in Kent. This is his first pre-season game this year after his holiday in Ireland. As usual, Bob is in shorts (this is the same Bob mentioned here, someone I enjoy talking to because of his breadth and depth of knowledge - most of which is pointless but still in some way interesting).

I end up sitting with Paul and Janice during the game, which is always good because I get stories from his other football trips (seriously, this bloke goes to the most obscure games purely because they're happening. That sounds like a marvellous way to live).

In the first quarter of an hour, it's obvious that City's players have spent a lot of time with each other. In the 12th minute, Jack Hobbs heads a Nicky Adams corner through the defence and into the net. Six minutes later, Lloyd Dyer chips the keeper for a second after a ball from Adams. Ten minutes after that, Adams plays another good ball to Dyer, who crosses for N'Guessan to fire a third. Only nine minutes afterwards, a long throw from Robbie Neilson (apparently his trademark) leads to Dyer smashing a fourth. Half time, 4-0.

The second half isn't so one-sided, and the most interesting thing on the pitch is an incident between Michael Morrison and a familiar-looking Shrewsbury player. Town's Andre Gray challenges Morrison in a way the City defender doesn't appreciate, and earns a football-style shove (and now I know why he looks familiar - he's the kid who walked past me at the station). Off the pitch, City's fans are getting in piss take mode for the new season. I hope that girl doesn't break down and cry on the way home.

I end up walking and talking with Bob back towards the town centre. The rain starts shortly after we start walking, and it's that pleasant-but-not-really type of rain you get when it's also quite warm. After about 40 minutes, we reach a bus stop. We're now soaking wet. Standing here are a young girl and a woman I'll assume to be her grandmother. Not because she's especially old, but because the girl is young - perhaps 15 or 16. We decide that a bus is the only way we'll get to the station before the 1747 train leaves. As we stand there, we make idle conversation. They've just come back from the cinema, having seen the new Harry Potter film. Bob asks if the buses are exact fare only. The grandmother replies "No, we rather enjoyed it." Somehow, the following seconds are the funniest moment of my day, with Bob looking at me with an amused yet slightly bewildered expression on his face, the young girl wearing an embarrassed but also somewhat tickled look on hers, and me biting my lip trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the answer. For some reason, I now want to laugh more than I've ever laughed in my life, but think it might be considered impolite.

We reach the New Street train just before it's due to leave the station. We find ourselves a couple of seats, and a few moments later a familiar face appears. It's Andre Gray again. Some of the City fans talk to him as he walks past, someone mentions the clash with Morrison, but it's all very friendly, and he walks on down the train grinning. Bob disappears to the toilet and I start to talk to Kirsty, who sits opposite. She's on her way home to Telford. I suppose someone has to live there.

At Telford, the train is held up. "We're just waiting for a gentleman to get off the train" says the announcement. A non-payer then. It's not a big deal though, the train arrives at New Street more or less on time. Bob can catch his train to London, and I can wander off upstairs and bugger about for a bit before the 1922 to Leicester. Soon, I find a couple of Wolves fans. They've just come back from a 2-0 defeat at Bristol City, and they think the side is a couple of players short for the new Premier League season. Never mind.

Down to the train then, and I find myself sitting with Amy, who's from Chorley. She's on her way to Leicester, because she's going on holiday. Sounds like a good holiday that. Actually, her holiday's not in Leicester, she's just flying from East Midlands. As it turns out, Amy's my sort of person. She reads, she can have a more or less intelligent conversation, she's polite, she's the sort of person you'd want living next door. As such, the next hour is more than bearable, but I won't bore you with details of the conversation. I get home just after 8.30 and have plenty of time to reflect on a genuinely enjoyable day. I could do this every week.

Final score: Shrewsbury 0 Leicester 4
Time: 10 hours 40 minutes
Ticket: £15
Train: £18
Total: £33

Dream holiday

2009-07-22T20:23:00.003+01:00

July 21st: Mansfield Town v Leicester City (Friendly)

Mansfield is the arsehole of the world. If you're ever compelled by outside forces to go to Mansfield, kill yourself instead. It's a much better experience. I don't say this as someone who has experienced both and can as such compare the two, but rather as someone who literally cannot imagine anything worse than being in Mansfield. As you may have gathered, I'm not necessarily looking forward to going there. Mostly because of the above, partly because I have to change at Nottingham, but also because I know this game will be shite. Two good things though - I can tick off another ground, and I can pick up some more souvenirs.

I rush out of work then to catch the bus to Leicester station, where I meet the 17.54 to Nottingham on platform 2. Within half an hour, I'm wandering around Nottingham station looking for some information. Eventually I learn the platform that I need for the 18.55 to Worksop, which stops at Mansfield. Looking around me, I see the railway signs at Nottingham all say 'Home of Capital One'. Now there's something for the citizens of Nottingham to be proud of - a bunch of irresponsible, life-destroying, usurious cunts.

[It's also a lie - Capital One is an American company, and Nottingham isn't in America.]

Also on the platform is a man who just opened a tin of Red Bull with his teeth (has he broken his fingers or something?) and a (presumably mentally defective) man juggling a small child. At just after 7.30, we roll into Mansfield, but there's no rush because I'm already in sight of the stadium. I reach Field Mill with about seven minutes to go before kick-off, so I take a quick walk round the other side of the ground to the club shop to purchase a badge (£2.50) and a decent quality Stags mug (£5.99) from Emily (possibly the best thing about Mansfield) before making my way back to where I started at the away entrance. A bag search and ten quid later, I'm in a third-row seat just as the teams are coming out.

The first half is best not talked about, apart from four things:

1. The terrible view I have from the third row. I'm directly behind the goal, and when the action's in the middle of the pitch it's like looking through a muslin veil at something in the distance on a foggy day.
2. Another addition to Max Gradel's collection of hilariously bad shots early on when he uses his left foot to clip a ball not only over the bar but over the stand and out of the ground.
3. The considerably less hilarious comment from a bloke a few rows back: "Get some lights on y' tightarses!" Everyone of course rolls about with laughter. No they don't.
4. The two twats behind me. They both insist on talking about other football throughout the first half; one wants to talk about David Beckham and Manchester United and Chelsea and Brazil and all the other things that uninformed people think football revolves around, the other is determined to display the holes in his knowledge of non-league football. Cunts.

So at half time I go for a wander around the stand. At the back I find Mr Jobber again (perhaps the most famous person to have read this page*) and after a few minutes' chat I find myself a new seat. The view from the third row from the back is much better, but sadly the second half is not. It's a little edgier, but not better. Conrad Logan, though, makes a couple of good saves. The game ends goalless.

[*To be honest, I've no idea who reads this. It could be that Nigel Pearson found it on a Google search once and is now a faithful reader. Probably not though.]

Outside the ground, the bus station is only about ten minutes' walk away. Now this is where it gets complicated. Remember that Mansfield is the arsehole of the world? Well, Mansfield bus station is the arsehole of Mansfield. Here, you can find the absolute lowest tier of the worst variety of person. I've always had a theory that Mansfield is where all other towns drive their very worst, most undesirable residents and just shove them out of the back of a moving van blindfolded. Fortunately, I only have to endure being surrounded by these rejects for half an hour, as my coach turns up more or less on time. And then I fall asleep.

At some point during my coach journey I get a phone call, and manage a passable conversation before possibly falling asleep on the phone. The next thing I know, the coach is standing outside St Margaret's station. At this point, walking for an hour and a quarter to get home seems like the masochist's option, so I'm getting a taxi. Anyone who thinks that makes me less hardcore can fuck right off.

Final score: Mansfield 0 Leicester 0
Time: 7 hours 5 minutes
Ticket: £10
Train: £8.40
Coach: £6.80
Taxi: £10
Total: £35.20

Say what you mean

2009-07-18T23:36:00.004+01:00

July 18th: King's Lynn v Leicester City XI (Friendly)

What a nice day for a trip to Norfolk. Rail replacement buses are running between Leicester and Peterborough, and the one I need leaves at 9.35, so I arrive in plenty of time (despite a disagreement with the ticket collection point, I still manage to be outside for the bus well in time). The bus turns into Conduit Street, past some alcoholics, and soon seeks out the A47, the road that will ultimately take us into Peterborough. I have a look at Leicester as we leave, and notice more alcoholics. There's one on the corner of King Edward Road, who has just opened a fresh tin. It's 9.40am. Another woman of maybe 35, possibly 60, walks past and acknowledges him. She has a bag full of cans. I start to wonder if my Leicester City addiction is equivalent to alcoholism. I decide it's not, because while it might be bad for my pocket, at least my addiction doesn't lead to me pissing myself in the doorway to Matalan.

We arrive in Peterborough some 20 minutes ahead of schedule, so I go for a wander through the nearby shopping centre to buy drinks and so on for the next leg of my journey. After an hour sampling the wonders on offer in Peterborough, it's time to get the 11.45 to Ely. I sit down some fifteen minutes before the departure time, and in those fifteen minutes the following happens: two inoffensive girls sit opposite me, and are friendly; I go into the toilet to wash my hands, and on my way there talk to a couple of Essex women, one of whom is wearing cycling shorts for some reason; I return to my seat to find that some teenage girls have boarded, and they seem decent enough; then a woman gets on with three girls, all clearly her own children, the eldest perhaps 11. It is these four who will annoy me, that much is obvious from the start. At the beginning, they interact with the teenage girls, and chat about their upcoming caravan holiday. Every five minutes or so the woman sets whatever she's doing or talking about aside to admonish the one she calls Tenesha, which isn't a name.

The trip is made longer by the fact that there are 'signal problems' while the train is at Whittlesea, and therefore the train crawls along for the first couple of stations. As a means of trying to block out the surrounding noise, I turn my attention to World Soccer, where I find the following passage:

"...(Cuauhtemoc) Blanco was dropped by (former Mexico boss Sven-Göran) Eriksson after announcing his international retirement. Unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of Mexican football, Eriksson failed to appreciate that Blanco's decision to quit meant he fully intended to keep playing..."

Of course.

At Ely, I find that I need to transfer to platform 1, and having been dropped off at platform 2, I now have to walk under the subway. Bit tedious that information isn't it? Well, it's necessary. It seems there's no way of getting from platform 2 and 3 to anywhere else in the station other than this subway. I wouldn't mind that, but the subway stinks - absolutely fucking stinks - of piss. It's not as bad as some public toilets, but then you expect a much frequented lavatory to have something of a urine fragrance. This feels like a surprise attack because it's not where a pissy smell should be. After about forty seconds, I finally inhale as I emerge on platform 1. I don't wish to do that again, ever.

[Before my train arrives, I hear an announcement that another train has been cancelled due to driver sickness. This after Ben sent me a message yesterday telling me his train had been cancelled due to 'unavailability of staff'. So here's an idea: hire more fucking staff. If your driver's sick, get in one of the back-up drivers any half-decent rail company should always have. And what does 'unavailability of staff' even mean? Does it mean that all the people trained to run the refreshments car are stuck in traffic? Does it mean your ticket collectors have all got swine flu? Or does it mean that you haven't hired enough staff to cover for such eventualities because you're a short-sighted bunch of incompetent twats who couldn't arrange the proverbial piss-up in a brewery, let alone effectively manage a major transport company? Yeah don't answer that, I know the answer. Get me some chimps and half a dozen dice.]

The 12.48 to King's Lynn is shortly on the platform, and not a moment too soon to be honest. I've spent the last five minutes watching an odious family at the other end of the platform. A woman who, at a conservative estimate, must be about 25 stone, looks on as her partner in idiocy, who has less meat on him than most garden tools, encourages their/her/his son to throw punches at him. This is not a quiet exercise, of course. Cunts.

I take a seat on the train and immediately find a much more pleasant experience. The small woman sitting next to me is Marie, who entertains me as far as Downham Market with various anecdotes and a variety of semi-interesting facts. She is replaced from Watlington by Elly, who's quiet and therefore a little hard to understand but pleasant nonetheless.

The train rolls into King's Lynn around a quarter past one, I have a wander then make my way towards the stadium. This walk through the park would be a very enjoyable one, were it not for the abundance of locals. Some of the people I encounter are indeed nice, helpful, friendly people, but these are too few and far between. Most of the people I pass fit into one of three categories: scrawny young men with their shirts off, the 'women' they seem to attract, and the children that are produced as a result of such unions.

I walk up the road alongside the park in the direction of the stadium, and as I do the team coach passes by in the other direction. Slightly confusing. Within a couple of minutes, I reach the ground. From the outside it looks at least Blue Square North standard, which makes me wonder what the ins and outs were that saw them expelled from that league for the upcoming season. I stand outside and talk to Nick, and the team coach passes by again - straight past the ground. It then stops, reverses into a side street and starts to turn round. At this point, I see Gerry Taggart walking towards us, and I enquire, "What's going on with this bus?" He looks as confused as I am, laughs and replies "I don't know" as he watches, semi-bewildered. Finally, the bus comes back a third time, and finds the entrance to the car park.

Inside the ground I find the club shop, where I end up having a decent conversation with the bloke running it. It seems that Conference politics determined that King's Lynn would be expelled from the league. The facilities were apparently not up to scratch on time, but there's a feeling that the club were treated differently to other clubs at the same level. There are some mugs behind the counter, one of which has Julian Joachim's face on. Apparently JJ didn't have the best season here last year, and has not been given a new deal on the grounds that he's a waste of money. That's not about to stop them making money off his likeness though.

I walk down all four sides of the ground, leaving the reasonably impressive south stand until last. I have a quick chat with some regulars, before finding a place at the front to stand and watch the game pitchside. Next to me is Cliff Ginnetta, chairman of the Leicester City Supporters Club.

[This is only the second time I've ever spoken to Cliff for more than a sentence or two. Despite some of the idiotic quotes attributed to him by the Leicester Mercury, he comes across as someone who knows his football, which leads me to believe that his words are mangled beyond recognition before they reach that worthless rag of a newspaper. They used to do the same to someone I knew quite well - the words printed on paper were simply not words that person would have used. Because of this, if I was ever in a position where that piece of shit publication asked me for a quote, I'd tell them to get fucked. Quote that.]

The teams are read out, opening my eyes to some new pronunciations of the names of some City players: Kyzak, Wesolofsky, Ambrusiask. Twenty minutes into the game, former Hinckley winger Owen Story sets up Matt Birley to put King's Lynn ahead. The stadium announcer decides instead that Gareth Sheldon scored. How he's got that one wrong I don't know, because a) he works for the club, and should know one player from the other, b) Sheldon is number 9, Birley is 10, and the black numbers on the yellow shirts are neither small nor difficult to read, and c) Sheldon - not to put too fine a point on it - is the fattest footballer I have ever seen in my life. He's not just footballer fat, like some people insist on claiming Matty Fryatt is (he isn't), or like Mido has been in the past. Sheldon is visibly overweight. But for all that, he's a reasonably good player.

The first half finishes 1-0 to King's Lynn. After fifteen minutes of doing nothing, I see the players come back out. City have made three changes, and these are read out by the stadium announcer. Adi Yussuf has replaced DJ Campbell, but is introduced to the crowd as Jorrin John. He is not Jorrin John. Jorrin John is still on the bench. The error causes some confusion, with Yussuf thinking he's the one who's made a mistake. A quick exchange with the bench confirms that, no, the announcer is the idiot.

During the second half, the Linnets fans behind us get increasingly drunk and twattish. Their 'humorous' remarks get even less humorous as the game wears on. One of them has brought their fucking kids, neither of whom is remotely interested in football and both of whom repeatedly smash into my legs every time they go past me. Little bastards. People who cannot control their kids should not be allowed to have unsupervised custody of them.

Fifteen minutes from the end, City equalise. The stadium announcer tells us the goal was scored by... Jorrin John. It wasn't. It was Yussuf. Shortly after, City score again, this time it looks like Nathan Hicks. The stadium announcer tells us it was Ricky Sappleton. It wasn't. It was Hicks. I think it was Hicks. Everyone around me thinks it was Hicks. If we're right, which I suspect we are, he's now achieved the unusual and frankly unlikely distinction of getting three consecutive goalscorers wrong. With about a minute to go, Ricky Sappleton fires in a third. No mistake this time, he gets this one right.

A quick exit gets me to the station by ten past five. Unfortunately, this is to precisely zero benefit because the next train to Ely is at 17.56. I kill time by reading the various publications in my bag and drinking the hottest cup of tea I've ever purchased. Eventually, the train pulls away, and one stop later I have neighbours. Not desirable ones though. An inebriated couple with a dog to be precise. A dog! And I know they're a couple because they spend an inordinate amount of time doing disgusting little things like licking each other's mouths until they - thank fuck - disembark two stops later.

At Ely, I find myself talking to Ian, who is a referee on his way home from a match. Nice enough bloke, but we don't chat for long because my train arrives. I take a seat at the end of a carriage, and start to relax. About a dozen people, obviously from the same party, are spread out along the carriage. I try not to get involved, they could be a group of loonies for all I know. After a few minutes, I go for a bit of a wander. I've no idea why, and pretty soon realise that it was a mistake. A woman starts to talk at me. She has about four teeth. She spends the rest of the journey into Peterborough yapping away in my general direction, while I respond alternately with "Yeah", "I know", and "Mmm". I can't begin to guess what she's talking about. At one point, she gets her phone out. This is where I start to panic - she's not going to ask for my number is she? Thoughts of future incomprehensible phone conversations run through my head, I'm pretty sure I've started sweating... and then she shows me a picture of her mum. This might relate to something she's said, but quite honestly I haven't a fucking clue.

Before I get off the train, I catch sight of a badge attached to the shirt of one of the men in the other party. They're Jehovah's Witnesses, coming back from some convention. Loonies it is then. I make a hasty exit from the station, and wait for the 20.10 rail replacement bus back to Leicester. From there, all goes well and I'm home just after 10.

What a nice day for a trip to Norfolk.

Final score: King's Lynn 1 Leicester XI 3
Time: 13 hours 10 minutes
Ticket: £7
Bus: £3.50
Train: £28.40
Total cost: £38.90

Knit me a fucking train

2009-07-15T23:44:00.003+01:00

July 15th: Hinckley United v Leicester City XI (Friendly)

Yeah, okay, this is essentially a reserve game. But it's still an opportunity to see some of the squad in action. The game is to kick off at half past seven, so I need to get the 18.25 train from South Wigston in order to arrive at the ground in time, which means a rush out of the office at 5pm on the dot, onto the first bus that arrives to get into town, then another bus to get back home. Unfortunately, Saffron Lane is closed so the bus is diverted through Freemen's Common and along Welford Road, inexplicably adding about half an hour to the journey. I arrive home about five past six, meaning I have to wash, change and get to South Wigston station all in about 20 minutes. Never going to happen, which makes it fortunate that I always have understanding family on standby to get me out of these situations.

So it is then that I'm paying for £10 worth of petrol (only fair) to get a lift to Hinckley. Having been here before, I know the layout of the stadium. I pay my £6 and have a quick wander, pay a visit to the club shop and buy a badge (£3) and then fork out another three quid or so for an inedible hot dog and a drink.

[What does 'hot dog with onions' mean to you? To me, 'hot dog with onions' means a hot dog with diced or otherwise finely chopped onions - well cooked onions - on the top. I'm sure it means the same to most people. It does not mean a hot dog with gigantic chunks of near enough raw onion that are dumped on top. This, my friends, is inedible crap. It would've been inedible without the onion fiasco, but that just made it worse. While I'm complaining about shitty food, I recently went to a shop in Leicester - I shan't say where - and asked for a cheeseburger with onions. I should've known better really. What I got was a crusty bun - not soft, as requested, but crusty - inside which was one of the most unappetising meat patties I've ever seen, some melted cheddar and, yes, raw fucking onions. And then they had the neck to charge me two fucking quid. Two fucking quid!]

By the time I open my drink, Hinckley are in front thanks to a free header presented to Lee Collins. Not long afterwards, James Wesolowski's attempted clearance smacks into a United player and hits the back of the net - 2-0. A tedious first half rolls up to the 45 minute mark. At half time, I walk back around the back of the goal to my left and have a quick chat with well-known City fan Lee Jobber - very large, very tattooed, very LCFC, and a superb bloke. He knows me as 'that lad with the flag'. He's bored and is considering going to Cheltenham v Bristol City at the weekend instead of King's Lynn. I don't blame him. Fiver says he ends up at King's Lynn though.

Second half begins much as the first did, although one of City's half-time substitutes Billy Kee is making an impact. Within 15 minutes of the restart, he's scored after chasing the ball back to the keeper. 20 minutes later, the equally impressive Jonny Hayes (remember him City fans?) fires in a second. In the last ten minutes, I shuffle towards the nearest exit fully aware that the station isn't nearby and as soon as the final whistle blows I'm out.

I walk into Hinckley - the ground isn't actually in the town, but rather just outside its boundaries - and know that pretty soon I'll see signs for the station. So I walk. And I walk. And walk. Eventually, there's one hidden behind a hedge telling me to go abruptly left. So I do. And I walk, and I walk, and eventually I find another sign pointing right, which says 'Station ¾'. You've got to be fucking kidding me. So I walk and walk, and finally reach the station. On checking the timetables, I see that the last two trains to South Wigston - two stops away - are at 21.29 and 22.59. Is that insane or what? It's as if the rail companies give a few chimps some dice to come up with their timetables.

I decide to quickly go to Tesco next door while I wait for my 'taxi'. As I come back out, some kid asks if I'll go in the shop for him. Well, no, no I won't. Twenty minutes later, my lift arrives, and home suddenly seems a lot closer. All this for a reserve game.

Twat.

Final score: Hinckley 2 Leiceter XI 2
Time: 4 hours 40 minutes
Ticket: £6
Petrol: £10.01
Total: £16.01

Two games? On the same day? Yep...

2009-07-11T18:02:00.004+01:00

July 11th: Loughborough Dynamo v Leicester City (Friendly) and Tamworth v Leicester City (Friendly)

I'm just in time for the bus, which drops me outside Leicester Magistrates' Court at 9.27. At 9.29 on New Walk, some fucker with a preachy-looking magazine tries to catch my eye and commences a conversation, which goes something like:
"Is money-"
"Nope."
At 9.32 and a few seconds, I enter the station, see an absurdly long queue at the ticket windows and decide the machine is a better option. Turns out this nine minute journey is going to cost me £4.10. Unfortunately buying the ticket takes far too long. Because I'm in a rush (the train leaves at 9.35) my 90p change is nine 10p coins, which drop one at a time, at five second intervals. Arriving on the platform at 9.34 and some seconds is insufficient, the train doors are already closed. It's not really a big deal though, just an annoyance, because the next one is in 20 minutes.

Eventually, I alight the train at Loughborough at 10.03, and promptly jump into a taxi. The driver offers to stop off at the shop so I can get the drink and snack I desperately need, having neglected breakfast earlier. Inside the empty shop, I grab a couple of things, and a copy of Boxing News, and as I approach the counter there's a sudden rush of people in front of me. Now there's a bloke buying cigarettes and a jazz mag ('for someone else, honest') and of course a lottery fucking ticket, then another twat who wants a chat with the bloke who sells him newspapers.

Back outside I'm delighted to learn the meter's only ticked over another 40p, and not long afterwards I'm handing over six quid in the car park of the Nanpantan Sports Ground. I pick up a programme and wander off towards the entrance. There's a few people already inside so I look for some familiar faces. Over the next hour or so I buy raffle tickets, discover the club house and talk to some woman, and read a bit of my magazine.

Having arranged with Paul to go in his car to the Tamworth game after this one, I occasionally glance at the entrance to see if he's arrived. 11.30 comes and goes, still no sign. My concern is over though as he comes in around 11.40, at which point he abandons his bag on the seat next to me and goes off to take pictures and locate the person selling badges.

The game kicks off at noon, exactly as scheduled, and less than five minutes later Billy Kee leaps and nuts home a Max Gradel cross for 1-0. Five minutes after that he's pulled down for a penalty, which Paul Dickov puts in the right hand corner. Nine minutes before half time, Dynamo's striker Alex Johnson - useful looking player - pulls one back. As he does, I'm buying food yet can still see the game. Half time comes, City lead 2-1. The second half is somewhat less eventful, the only goal coming from a neat move down the left being finished off at close range by Nicky Adams. As 90 minutes approaches, we edge towards the exit, and as soon as the referee's whistle blows we're gone.

Getting out of the car park poses little difficulty, and the trip to Tamworth is livened up with old away day stories. Said trip is surprisingly brief, and we're parked up in the Tamworth car park with a good half hour to spare. Into the club shop then, before finding an appropriate entrance and coughing up ten quid. We find ourselves behind Gerry Taggart, who appears to be in the seat for today, in the dugout. The teams are announced, and pretty soon the game's under way. First half is a bit of a scrap, Tamworth look to be a decent enough side. It's nine minutes into the second half before there's a breakthrough, Bruno Berner rolling it in from an angle. It can't be said, though, that City dominate the game and sure enough in the 87th minute, big striker Nick Wright curls a superb shot over Carl Pentney to equalise.

Another final whistle sounds, another dash for the door, and another quick car park exit. Just over half an hour after the game finishes, I'm walking through the front door. A reasonably short day, and most enjoyable. Still - something's missing...

Final scores: Loughborough 1 Leicester 3; Tamworth 1 Leicester 1
Time (from leaving the house to getting back): 8 hours 20 minutes
Tickets: Loughborough £7, Tamworth £10
Bus: £1.80
Train: £4.10
Taxi: £6
Total cost: £28.90

Counting the hours

2009-07-08T21:48:00.003+01:00

July 8th: 63 hours and 30 minutes to go

It's currently Wednesday night, the players have been back in training a week, City have signed a few more players (seven this summer now) and August 8th is marked on the calendar with a big red circle. This Saturday we'll be making a trip to Loughborough before hopping over to Tamworth. (I'm not literally hopping, I'm not that much of a twat.) Two games in one day, a new one on me. More random stuff before the start of the pre-seaon friendlies then.

These new blokes are looking interesting. The most recent one, Richie Wellens, has come from Donny Rovers for over a million quid and by all accounts is what you'd expect from a player trained by Manchester United. Let's hope he's more Paul Scholes than Graeme Tomlinson.

Dany N'Guessan, a French winger and Rangers reject, has come from Lincoln for a fee yet to be determined. I've seen him play a grand total of one time, and on that occasion he was the best of an amazingly bad bunch (of 22 - both sides were atrocious). With any luck he'll turn out to be better than the last player we got from Lincoln - one Gareth McAuley, a defender whose clearances invariably found opposing players in attacking positions.

As I mentioned previously Robbie Neilson arrived from Hearts, where he was captain. Neilson's an experienced right-back, and his arrival ruled out City making the move for Kerrea Gilbert that was rumoured before the summer. I would've liked to see Kerrea stay, but he's good enough to find a club anyway - he'll need to, because he's currently an Arsenal player and he's English.

Chris Weale has arrived from Bristol City after his contract ran out. Weale has played 26 first-team games since he left Yeovil in 2006 (including 10 last season for Yeovil in a loan spell), owing mostly to being at the same club as the superb Brazilian keeper Adriano Basso.

The other three - Jack Hobbs, Wayne Brown and Astrit Ajdarević - spent some (or in Hobbs' case all) of last season at the club. The one I'm least excited about (and hope to be most surprised by) is Ajdarević. He's a Sweden under-17 player (although apparently he was born in Kosovo), and comes from the Liverpool youth set-up, but he looked decidedly average when he came in last term and that's probably why he's only got one year.

The countdown continues: 63 hours 30 minutes to go.

Eight days closer

2009-06-25T15:27:00.002+01:00

June 25th: Random thoughts

Sixteen days remain until the first day of pre-season, and I'm still annoyed. I've no problem with the fact that we have five away games and just one home game. In fact, I could probably live without the Real Valladolid clash because it's pointless. If it was Real Madrid, or even Real Salt Lake, I might be able to get interested. But it isn't, so I'm not. What I'm annoyed about is the fact that we have two games on the same day. At noon on July 11th, City kick off against Loughborough Dynamo, then at 3pm against Tamworth. This leaves about an hour for us to get from the former to the latter. Fuck knows how I'll do that without a car.

Anyway, I'll deal with that later. Meanwhile, USA are in the final of the worthless Confederations Cup with a 2-0 win over Spain, a result which, within minutes of the final whistle, had already been described as 'the biggest shock in Confederations Cup history.' I can think of a bigger one I reckon.

The countdown continues...

The fixtures are out!

2009-06-17T22:40:00.002+01:00

June 17th: 2009-10 fixtures announced

Well after all the waiting, it turns out we start our campaign against Swansea at the Walkers. That makes it three home starts in a row, which will do me just fine. A scan down the list shows we have a trip to Newcastle on Bank Holiday weekend (how fortuitous), and hopefully a successful journey to the Ricoh Arena on October 3rd. Nobody will be surprised to see our Christmas schedule (Sheffield United at home, Doncaster away), which is of course specially formulated to minimise travelling time. No awkward trips to Nottingham, Derby or Coventry for us - Doncaster is obviously much easier and quicker. Our midweek trips promise to be much more fun: Sheffield United, Middlesbrough, Barnsley, Bristol City and Crystal Palace. I'm not joking. Each of these trips is impossible to make by public transport in midweek. Not just difficult - impossible. The last train from Sheffield on August 18th, for example, is at 21.38 - before the game concludes. I've said it before, I'll say it again: no consideration for fans. Not one bit.

Also today, Spain struggled to beat Iraq and South Africa beat New Zealand 2-0 in the Confederations Cup, which is living up to its billing as an utterly pointless competition. Elsewhere, North Korea's 0-0 draw with Saudi Arabia earned them a World Cup ticket for 2010, while their opponents take on Bahrain for the right to play New Zealand in the Asia/Oceania playoff. That'll be a thriller, I can just tell.

Now for my next task: planning my travel to the pre-season friendlies.

And it all begins again

2009-06-16T15:43:00.002+01:00

June 16th: Carling Cup draw

Before I start moaning about things - which I will - let's have a little recap of what's happened in the world of football since we last spoke.

The Premier League season came to an nail-biting climax at the foot of the table. It had to really given that, as usual, all interest in the other end had evaporated by the end of April. On an emotional final day, Middlesbrough's predictable drop through the trapdoor was confirmed mathematically, and Newcastle fell out of the top flight after defeat at Villa Park. Hull, despite losing to Manchester United's ninth-string (including four players still in primary school), stayed up by the skin of their teeth, meaning Match of the Day viewers have to put up with Phil Brown for at least another few months. Until he does that team talk on the pitch thing again, obviously. Then he'll get the sack. It also means we get to travel to St James' Park next season, and Ben owes me a curry.

Chelsea won the FA Cup. Nobody except Guus Hiddink cared.

Barcelona are the new champions of Spain and of Europe, and it's hard to argue that any side is more deserving of either title. Undoubtedly the best attacking team in the world, in addition to beating Manchester United comprehensively in the Champions League final, they also put six past Real Madrid at the Bernabeu in a result that completely killed off the capital club's revival. Barcelona's treble (they also won the Copa del Rey) was not perfect football from start to finish, but it was a lot of fun to watch, even from a distance.

[Real Madrid, having conceded 52 goals in comparison to the 57 shipped by Recreativo Huelva, who finished rock bottom, promptly signed Kaka for approximately €65 million and are now close to completing the signature of Cristiano Ronaldo for a fee reported to be about €94 million. They've also been linked with Franck Ribery and David Villa. Yep, that'll sort out the back four. Incidentally, this all means that as things stand Real are now responsible for the four biggest transfer fees in football history.]

Elsewhere, Wolfsburg won their first ever German title under Felix Magath, who swiftly packed his things and fucked off to Schalke. England whacked Andorra (population: 68,000) 6-0 in a tedious procession. Shakhtar Donetsk won the last-ever UEFA Cup. Mexican football was severely affected by the global overreaction to the swine flu pandemic: the CONCACAF Champions League final was postponed, and their club sides found themselves effectively forced out of the Libertadores Cup after considerably disproportionate panicking by the Argentine, Brazilian and Colombian FAs, as well as CONMEBOL. Claudio Ranieri became the first Juventus coach to be sacked since the 60s after finishing ten points behind Jose Mourinho's Internazionale.

As I write, the Confederations Cup has just kicked off this week with a thrilling 0-0 draw between hosts South Africa and Asian champions Iraq. This was followed by a competitive game between OFC kings New Zealand and Euro 2008 victors Spain, the latter just about edging out the All Whites 5-0. The following day the, erm, mighty Brazil beat African champions Egypt 4-3 with a Kaka penalty in stoppage time. Later on Italy beat USA 3-1 with two goals from New Jersey-born Giuseppe Rossi. Each game thus far has been accompanied by that annoying mosquito-like buzzing (caused by those fucking horns they seem to have everywhere) that ruins the atmosphere of every game in every international tournament.

And Leicester have signed Hearts captain Robbie Neilson.

Right then, to the Carling Cup draw. Don't think this is important? Well it is. The draw for the first round of the Carling Cup represents the door to the new season; everything before is forgotten, and it's all about the next challenge. Tomorrow the league fixtures will be announced. Or, rather, the provisional league fixtures - Sky and Setanta (if they still exist tomorrow morning) will inevitably mangle it into something even more inconvenient than it already is.

As I was looking at the Football League website this morning, waiting for the draw (sad bastard), I clicked onto an article here explaining the compilation of the list that rules so many lives. But I couldn't be bothered to read it because I assumed there was nothing in there for me to learn. However, when Ben sent me a link I was compelled to go back to it. Even though it turned out I was right - it tells me exactly what I learned from an article I read about a year ago, less a few details - it still made for an interesting read. Below, excerpts are in quotation marks, accompanied by my response:

"The increase in European club competition fixtures - with the inaugural Europa League next season - is eating into the available space; as are international friendlies and World Cup qualifiers. Next season is followed by the World Cup so the campaign ends early. The Champions League final next season takes place on a Saturday, eating into another weekend when Premier League fixtures cannot be played."
Well, that makes perfect sense. UEFA have done their bit in making their new competition as long and invasive as possible - the eventual winners of the Europa League will have played a minimum of fifteen games. For the triumphant team in the misleadingly named Champions League, it's thirteen. Mercifully, the World Cup and European Championship qualifying tournaments are much less demanding. But why do national associations insist on international friendlies? That's just clutter for clutter's sake, surely?

"Out of necessity, next season's play-off finals are split across two weekends, with the Championship finale taking place on the same day as the Champions League final."
I think we're being liberal with the word 'necessity' here aren't we? All the Football League's problems in terms of fixture scheduling are of their own, and other authorities', making. The divisions are too big, the European tournaments are too long, there are too many games of football being played. That's all there is to it.

"There are 10 rounds of midweek Championship fixtures to squeeze in, six for League One and League Two and four in the Premier League. Then you have the FA Cup, the Carling Cup and the Johnstone's Paint Trophy."
The use of the word 'squeeze' says it all. Ten midweek league games! Plus the Carling Cup, which is a midweek tournament. Sometimes it seems the people who make the decisions aren't seeing the obvious solutions.

"He also manually creates the fixtures for Boxing Day and 28 December to try to minimise the travelling distance for fans."
'He' is Glenn Thompson of Atos Origin, who has been doing the fixtures since the 1993-4 season. According to the other article dealing with this (which appears to be no longer on the Football League website; if it is please point it out), the Christmas schedule is one of the first things sorted out. Interesting to have these two pieces of info, because look at Leicester's Christmas schedules since the 1993-4 season:

In 1993, City played Watford at home on the 27th, then Derby away the next day. Cheers for that one Glenn. Other teams in our division that year included Nottingham Forest, Notts County, Peterborough, Birmingham, West Brom, Wolves and Stoke. Yet Watford was the most convenient?

In 1994, we had Liverpool at home, then Manchester United away. Other possibilities included Aston Villa, Coventry and Nottingham Forest, but it was apparently decided that City fans would find it easier to get to Manchester on the 28th.

In 1995, City played Grimsby away on the 23rd of December. Their next game was on the 1st of January - away to Millwall.

In 1996, we got Liverpool away then Nottingham Forest at home. Again, Liverpool was clearly preferable to Villa, Coventry or Derby.

In 1997 our Boxing Day fixture was Arsenal away, followed by Sheffield Wednesday at home on the 28th. Again, these were deemed preferable to Villa, Coventry or Derby.

(To be honest, when I thought about this rant initially, I was going to stop there. But it goes on, and therefore so will I. You all think I'm a moaning fucker anyway, I might as well live up to it.)

The same three clubs were again ruled out in 1998, as were promoted Nottingham Forest. Instead we played Sheffield Wednesday away, then Blackburn at home.

Surely then, in 1999 (after Forest went straight back down), we got at least one of the three nearby teams over Christmas? Well, no. We got Leeds away, then Newcastle at home. Has anyone seen this idea of reduced travelling times come into play yet? Thought not.

In 2000, we were handed Arsenal away. Not Villa, not Coventry, and of course not Derby.

(You know what, I thought I was going to stop after another three seasons, but it turns out I'm going to carry right on.)

In 2001, even with Coventry down, Villa and Derby remained in the top flight. So we got Ipswich away then Bolton, also away. Obviously.

In 2002, after the Peter Taylor-enforced relegation, we now had loads of Midlands clubs in our league. So who did we get over Christmas - Walsall, Stoke, Wolves, Forest, Derby, Coventry? Well, no. Ipswich at home, then Watford away. The clear choice.

In 2003, we were back in the big time. Despite the presence of Villa, Birmingham and Wolves the Premier League, we got Newcastle at home followed by Bolton away.

In 2004, you won't be surprised to hear that we didn't get Derby, Wolves, Stoke, Coventry or Forest over Christmas to 'minimise travelling distance'. We got Rotherham at home, than Sheffield United away.

A perfect scenario in 2005 would have seen us up against Derby, Stoke, Coventry or Wolves. Mr Thompson evidently saw the Christmas period as the ideal time for us to play Millwall at home then Reading away.

At Christmas 2006, rather than Birmingham, West Brom, Wolves, Derby, Stoke or Coventry, we were presented with Hull away followed by Southampton away on the 30th. This minimised travelling time no end.

A year later we had Ipswich and Charlton at home, followed by QPR away on New Year's Day.

And of course last season, it was Leeds away, then Hereford at home. So that fucks the travelling time argument. If Thompson really wanted to minimise travelling time for fans over the Christmas period, we'd have local derbies galore, which I think is a superb idea. Imagine the heightened interest in a phenomenon such as Local Derby Day. Anyway, on to the next quotation:

"...the computer has no concept of the distance between grounds."
Why? How difficult can it be to program in the distances or travelling times and a means of using the information?

"This year when I see some ridiculous fixtures my club have been asked to play I hope I show a little bit more understanding. Though I seriously doubt it."
I wouldn't say they deserve an increased level of understanding. Far from gaining my sympathy, this article merely exposes incompetence. Granted, generating the fixtures for four divisions must be a difficult job, but not as difficult as they appear to want to make it.

Another thing that concerns me is the fact that the randomness factor is not as big as they like us to think, and with each manual tweak of the schedule it diminishes. Did you know, for example, that derby fixtures are deliberately avoided on the opening and closing days of the season? Or that QPR never play at home the weekend of the Notting Hill carnival? Or that midweek fixtures are decided manually? That's right, midweek games are, according to the previous article on the Football League website, not random. So games such as our trips to Colchester and Tranmere last season were intentionally scheduled to be night games.

Nobody will ever convince me that any consideration for fans goes into this process. If the fixture lists come out tomorrow and our midweek games are against the likes of Derby, Forest, Coventry, Peterborough, West Brom and so forth, I might change my mind. But they won't be. I've a feeling we'll get maybe one of those - West Brom - and the rest will be something like: Preston, Scunthorpe, Watford, Middlesbrough.

Anyway, now that rant's over let's have a look in the old crystal ball. My crystal ball has been known to be quite cloudy and somewhat unreliable, but occasionally it's right. So here are my readings for the season to come:

2009-10 will see the usual suspects fighting it out for the Premier League title, with Manchester United lifting the trophy again. Liverpool's challenge won't fade until March this time around, but they'll finish third behind a rejuvenated Chelsea. All three promoted sides will stay up at the expense of Hull, Portsmouth and Blackburn. Still nobody will care about either of the cups.

In the Championship, Newcastle's slow start will prove costly as they finish outside the play-off positions. Middlesbrough will win the title, followed at a short distance by Reading. Preston will go up via the play-offs. Nigel Pearson will lead Leicester to a respectable mid-table slot, while Darren Ferguson does similar at Peterborough. Barnsley are out of luck at the wrong end, and they will drop into League One with Scunthorpe and Blackpool, who finish rock bottom. Coventry will struggle but will stay up.

League One looks very interesting for this season, containing four clubs who have dropped out of the Premier League since 2004. Players will almost certainly leave Southampton in droves. Promotion is a long way away. Charlton were an unbelievably poor side last season and will also have a hard time to start with; however they will discover some consistency and a place in the play-offs should be achieved. However, promotion is beyond them. Norwich are the best placed to go straight back up, and my feeling is they'll do it the same way Leicester did - as champions. Leeds will finally put an end to their fans' Division Three misery by finishing second. MK Dons will win at Wembley. Exeter will be the first team relegated having been promoted a season too early. They'll be joined back in League Two by fellow new boys Wycombe, as well as Carlisle and Yeovil, whose luck will run out.

In League Two Northampton will bounce back, as will Crewe. Bury and Chesterfield (via the play-offs) will join them in League One. Cheltenham and Grimsby will exit the league.

Other miscellaneous predictions: Schalke, Barcelona and Inter to win their domestic leagues, Inter to also lift the Champions League title, Spain to bag the World Cup.

If anyone wants to send me their predictions, post them in the comments section. Most accurate wins the dubious benefit of being called Nostradamus by me at every opportunity. Right, I'm done for now. I'll be posting again tomorrow.

By the way: we got Macclesfield away in the Carling Cup. Bet that's got you all excited.

The end. Sort of

2009-05-06T14:39:00.003+01:00

Leicester City Season 2008-9 (League One)

It's been a fun season, despite being compelled to go to several non-league standard grounds, enter the FA Cup two rounds earlier than usual and watch Cheltenham play twice. I've had a good time but it hasn't half been pricey. Check back every week or so because I'll still be updating during the summer, only the format will be slightly different. Obviously.

On a personal note, I've had some good days out and some terrible days out but I wouldn't undo any of them, even though it's cost a disproportionate amount of money.

One last set of numbers for the season then:

Final league position: 1st
Season ticket: £322
Other tickets: £546.40
Travel total: £735.90
Total cost of accommodation: £83
Total cost of following Leicester City 2008-9: £1687.30

A bowl of what?

2009-05-06T12:53:00.003+01:00

May 2nd: Crewe Alexandra v Leicester City (League One)

Exactly one year ago to the day I sat at the Britannia Stadium in Stoke-on-Trent and watched as a tedious 0-0 draw simultaneously promoted a deserving Stoke City to the Premier League and relegated an even more deserving Leicester to League One. Since then, both sides have made the most of their new surroundings: Stoke are more or less safe from immediate demotion back to the oddly-named Championship, while Leicester of course were assured of the League One title two weeks ago. So while it might be a while before another trip to Stoke, today we must travel again through Potters territory to get to Gresty Road. The first train to New Street on a Saturday, as you will know by now, is 5.55am from South Wigston, which is a 25 minute walk away. As I arrive at the station ten minutes early I notice a man with a white beard on the Birmingham-bound platform.

[Digression session: calling South Wigston station a 'railway station' is opening up the interpretation of the phrase 'railway station' to include pretty much any stretch of track alongside which there are two lengths of concrete exceeding a few feet, because that's what it is: two platforms complete with signs, a pathway leading up to the road and some track going through the middle of it. There's nothing about it that really says 'railway station' other than trains stopping there every so often. For example, you can't buy tickets there. There's not even a toilet.

Digression from digression: the reason I use 'railway station' is that I was once corrected from using 'train station' by a railway enthusiast, who insisted that it was an Americanism, ie wrong. This, of course, put me off. I now use the phrase 'train station' as often as I eat food from McDonalds, spell 'realise' with a 'z', invade Iraq for no reason or go to church; that is to say, never.]

The white-bearded man immediately approaches for a conversation. Soon we're on the subject of sports stadia. He remembers Saffron Lane Stadium being opened and is disappointed at its demise. I can't imagine why; it was a horrible venue. In my younger years I watched cycling with my grandad (several times, didn't have a clue what was going on) and Leicester Panthers American football with my mate and his mum (twice, at least, and ditto) and also, in the other half of the stadium, took part in a couple of school sports days. But I cannot think of one redeeming feature of the stadium, and I distinctly recall being completely indifferent when I discovered it was being demolished.

The white-bearded man then makes the astonishingly ill-informed suggestion that the Walkers Stadium should have been an all-purpose arena, housing not only football but also rugby, American football, cycling, greyhounds, speedway... My thoughts are, "Are you completely fucking insane? How would that even work? Rugby would destroy the pitch. What American football team? How the hell would you get a cycle track round a football pitch? The other two aren't even real sports. No, sorry, you're mental." What I actually say is, "I don't think that would work."

[Football grounds should be football grounds, and nothing else. Ok, so hiring out the stadium as a music venue during the summer months isn't a terrible idea, if you need the money and if it's done properly. But incompatible sports should be kept apart. Football and athletics are incompatible, because there should never be a running track round a football pitch. Football and rugby are incompatible, because the pitch markings are different and because rugby ruins the pitch. Football and pretty much any other sport are incompatible because football requires a different type of venue to any other sport.

Trivia question: What do the following football clubs have in common? Wigan, Wycombe, Watford, Hull, Reading, Huddersfield, Stockport, Bristol Rovers and Leicester. Correct, they share their pitches, either full-time or occasionally, with peanut huggers. This, obviously, is nonsense. Well, it's obvious to everyone except people with the ability to change the situation anyway.

None appear to have plans to remedy the patently idiotic status quo whereby the pitch is churned up by fat men touching each other days before a league game on the same turf. Yes, okay, rugby league (Wigan, Hull, Huddersfield) is a summer game. That doesn't mean the seasons don't overlap though. All it means is their curtain-raisers in April coincide with potentially crucial relegation/promotion/title-related fixtures. I'll be the first one laughing when Wigan get relegated because of a surface abnormality in the penalty box created during an inconsequential match against Wakefield Trinity Wildcats. Not that I've got anything in particular against Wigan, you understand. It's more of an anti-rugby thing, combined with an anti-Dave Whelan thing. Why do I dislike Dave Whelan? The same reason everybody else should: the new name for the JJB Stadium, as of next season, is the DW Stadium. That, and every other reprehensibly abhorrent thing he's done since he bought the club. And he has the temerity to rip into Mike Ashley for having no class? An utter, utter cunt of the very highest grade.]

On the train, the white-bearded man has disappeared. Where to, I've no idea. Not necessarily a bad thing though, I had no intention of taking the relationship any further when he uttered the word 'speedway'. There are several people who've apparently been drawing on themselves with an orange highlighter pen. Oh fuck, no, they're ravers aren't they. Well before the train reaches Narborough, there's a fight in the next carriage up. This is followed by a lot of holding back of idiots by other idiots, some staring and inaudible words. Some idiots cross from one side to the other. I don't know how drunk fights work, but I'm pretty sure you can't be on both sides. I'm fairly certain, too, that it's not customary to send diplomats to the opposing group. At least one plainly arseholed and pilled-up individual seems to be on friendly terms with both sides, though. I lose interest when it becomes obvious nobody's going to be killed, and the main protagonist alights at Hinckley.

I'm drinking tea near the market before 7, but it's terrible so it goes in the bin after a few sips. I walk up to Snow Hill station to catch the 7.56 tram to Wolverhampton. Moments after I get on, a man in a West Brom shirt (the ugly yellow one) follows. Paul hasn't missed a game this season, and I bet he's spent more than I have even though he's not had to go to as many games. He shows me his ticket for today's game at Tottenham. The price reads £32.50. Shocking, just shocking.

[Clearly this isn't the most expensive football ticket in the country, what with the likes of Chelsea trying to fleece people for £64 a game in some seats. According to their website, Arsenal charge £92 for some matchday tickets. But tickets for league games should never be more than £20, even in the Premier League. Even Leeds and Leicester, of the third division let's not forget, charge nearly thirty quid for away fans. The FA Cup Final's most expensive ticket - and I'm talking prime seating here - should be about £50; instead it's £93.

Speaking of the FA Cup Final, this season the fixture sees 1995 winners Everton take on nouveau riche Chelsea. Both clubs regularly draw 40,000+ to their home games, and Wembley holds 90,000. Easy, right? Well, no. Apparently, the FA has seen fit to give both clubs 25,000 tickets, the other 40,000 being made available to people from the 'football family'. I, and a lot of other people I'd wager, say fuck that. Split the capacity 50-50 between the two clubs. The FA Cup final is NOT a place for neutrals, especially when fans of the clubs concerned are missing out.

Imagine you're an Everton fan, and you've been to Goodison every home game, even followed on a few away trips, and spent shitloads of cash you could've spent elsewhere. You've been to every FA Cup game, nearly had a heart attack as the boys hoofed Manchester United out in the semi final. Then, to your horror, the final tickets sell out before you get to the ticket office. Your first chance to see your team pick up silverware in 14 years is gone, and you have to watch it on tv. Then, during the second half, the camera zooms in on Brian fucking Barwick sitting there eating a pie and paying no attention to the game.]

The walk to Wolverhampton bus station is short, and I soon find the stand to catch the 76 to Stafford. At 8.45 the bus departs, out of the city centre, past Molineux (a glaring hole on my list of grounds visited) and towards Staffordshire. Some twenty minutes before 10am, the bus arrives at Stafford railway station and this is where I get off. Looking round for clues, I try to figure out where the 101 to Newcastle-under-Lyme might depart from. There are, sadly, no clues, so I go into the station to see if there are any maps. Nope. But there is a Preston fan named Will, who seems to think the relevant stop is across the road. He also believes it will be quicker and easier to get the train. No time to explain, although before I depart his friend Joe, a Forest fan, appears. After a short but friendly chat, I'm off. Five minutes later, I'm on my second bus of the day.

Shortly before Stone, a young woman gets on the crowded bus and sits next to me, and waves to someone through the window as we pull away.
"She didn't see me," referring to her mum/sister/friend/therapist/don't care.
"Okay," not caring.
"I always sit at the back."
"Okay," still not caring.
"This is Stone."
"I know."
"I was born in Stone."
"Okay." So was Stan Collymore, but he's never done this to me.
"It's nice."
"Okay."
And so on.

The toilets opposite Newcastle bus station are clean. Not clean like you'd want in your house, or even in the same street, but clean compared to most public toilets. This is a pleasant surprise, because cleanliness doesn't appear to be the town's watchword. Anyway, the bus is due to leave here at 11.05, so it's something of a concern that 11.10 arrives with no bus. Around me, there's a woman with two young kids - boys perhaps in their early teens, a man with a perfectly spherical purple head, a man with a shaved, tattooed head, and in the medium distance a young child with a fucking whistle. To take my mind off the noise of the fucking whistle, I look around the local area. The woman and the two boys disappear. I notice another woman walking with two young girls, both of whom are barely covered up by their clothes.

[Whose idea was slutwear for nine-year-olds? And what sort of parent actually buys their daughter a midriff-exposing top with a provocative slogan on it? Short shorts and knee high boots? Don't hide behind the hot weather excuse. Yes, the sun's out but it's not that warm. Buy them a hat and some sunglasses. Scumbags.]

At about 11.20, the two boys come back with news: the bus has overheated, and we're now waiting for a mechanic. Brilliant. Ten minutes later, another man comes up, looks at the timetable and groans. "Don't worry, it's not gone yet."
"The Crewe bus?"
So I explain. This is Richie, a Sunderland fan and a cricketer who's going to be late for his match this afternoon. When the bus finally leaves at 11.47, we're chatting away about, what else, football. Richie's very pained that Roy Keane pissed away a lot of the club's money achieving nothing: "he spent £80 million, on what?" Well, Roy O'Donovan for one. And Keiron Richardson, David Healy, Liam Miller, Greg Halford... Wow, what a parade of shit.

Halfway to Crewe, the bus stops and the engine is turned off. It seems it's overheated again. Fifteen minutes later, we're transferred to the next bus. Close to 1pm, we finally arrive in Crewe, within sight of the ground. I do my now customary wandering, but I've been here before so there's nothing new to see. Bob is the first familiar face spotted, so we have a brief chat. He was up and out earlier than me, which should be the case for most games considering he lives in Kent, but it almost certainly isn't. I'm pretty sure Bob can have a conversation, and at least sound informed, about any subject. Minutes later, after Bob wanders off to do something else, I see a familiar trio - Paul, Janice and Helen once again. This of course leads to an extended four way conversation, which becomes five when Bob returns. After an anecdote from him about assaulting his wife with an alarm clock while half asleep, we eventually make our way into the ground. I find my seat, sandwiched between two people I've met before. To the right, a man and his son who I've found irritating at several games. To the left, a couple I bumped into at Southend. No prizes for guessing where most of my conversation goes during the tedious, goalless first half.

At half time, a text message from Paul informs me of several empty seats in his vicinity, so I up sticks and join him. Behind me now is a woman who looks familiar but I can't place her. That's so annoying. On the pitch, the inevitable happens as Bruno Berner's awkward long-range strike puts the Foxes ahead. Lloyd Dyer doubles the advantage on 65. Not long after, Matty Fryatt slots in for the third. As the second half progresses, I decide that Gylfi Sigurdsson is possibly the worst player in the division.

After the final whistle, I applaud a little but I've got a bus pretty soon so it's time to go. Just as I'm about to make my way down the steps, a well-dressed bloke with a familiar head walks up them. That's John Salako! I give him a quick thumbs-up, how are you, and he grins. Satisfied with that response, I walk down the stairs. As I stand at the foot of the stairs, he walks past again, and appears to look directly at me. So I nod and flick him another thumb, to which he replies "I'm going this way", pointing towards the exit. I look behind me to see if he's talking to someone else. Nobody there. Confused at being offered this segment of his itinerary, I simply nod in agreement.

At the bus stop, a young bloke with a red t-shirt on approaches. As I shake this complete stranger's hand I read the shirt: 'I'd rather have a bowl of Eugen Bopp!' Superb. The three buses back get me into Wolverhampton at around 8.15. The tram seems to take hours getting back to Snow Hill, but eventually we get there. I will fall asleep very soon. As I come out of the station, I look at the giant sign outside. I must be seeing things here because there are three arrows, pointing in various directions. Next to the second one it says "NEW STATION STREET". I look away, and back again. It still says "NEW STATION STREET". A third time - "NEW STATION STREET". I'm not seeing things, it's just wrong. How much did that cost?

[This isn't the first time something's been fucked up this badly in Birmingham. Some months ago, Birmingham City Council sent out 720,000 leaflets at a cost of £15,000 to thank the people of Birmingham for their commitment to recycling. On the front it said "THANK YOU BIRMINGHAM" in big letters, underneath which was a picture of the skyline of Birmingham. The one in Alabama. They didn't know until someone who'd received the leaflet emailed them. My guess is someone typed 'Birmingham skyline' into Google and saved the first picture they found.]

At 9pm I walk into the front entrance at "New Station Street" and look to see when the next train to Leicester is. No answer on the electronic boards. Over to the customer service office then. "When's the next train to Leicester?"
"10.22."
I look at the clock. "No, the next one."
"10.22."
A bemused look. "That's the next one from now? Seriously?"
"Yes. 10.22."
Unbelievable. Just fucking unbelievable.

Well I've not eaten since the terrible chips I bought opposite the ground, so I head off to Manzil's for some food. An hour and twenty quid later, I walk back to the station. When I arrive the train's on the platform and almost full, so I take a seat next to some bloke speaking into his phone. No idea what language he's speaking, but it's almost certainly African, probably eastern. Not that you care any more than I do, I'm asleep within minutes. I wake up in time for South Wigston and amble slowly along the platform. It takes me a moment to recognise the white-bearded man again (the white beard not enough of a clue apparently). Fortunately this exchange is to be cut short when he hops into a waiting taxi. I arrive back home just in time for highlights of Wigan v Bolton, so I switch the tv off.

A little think about the season.

Asleep.

It's over.

Final score: Crewe 0 Leicester 3
Ticket: £18.60
Train: £9.20
Tram: £4
Buses: £4.70, £4.20, £3.70
Total: £44.40

Ooh look, it's shiny

2009-04-27T14:32:00.004+01:00

April 24th: Leicester City v Scunthorpe United (League One)

Warning: this post is more football-heavy than usual. Non-football fans may get even more bored than they normally do. Don't say you weren't warned. Also, my friend Laura has insisted that she get a mention in this entry, but she's got no chance.

The party atmosphere has started early - before I leave the house I see a news report by that ginger woman on the East Midlands news about hundreds of sad fuckers gathering outside the stadium three hours before kick-off. I read somewhere that tickets were rapidly running out for this fixture. This is both good news and mildly irritating. Good news, of course, because it means that not only will ticket sales be up by about eight thousand but also there will be a better atmosphere inside the ground when the trophy is presented. Irritating because it shows how previously uninterested residents of Leicestershire will invariably suddenly attach themselves to the team as soon as success is around. Today's attendance will most likely be over the thirty thousand mark. I wonder how many will come back to see Plymouth or Blackpool on the opening day of next season.

Inside the stadium you can feel there's something special going on tonight. It's just a shame we can't have this more often. Where were all these cunts two years ago when we were getting fucked at home by Hull (and West Brom, Sheffield Wednesday, Sheffield United, Burnley, Preston...)? Turning up to support the team only when they've got a trophy to show you is like only visiting your girlfriend when she's promised you a blow job.

[To take the analogy further, if that's what you do with your current girlfriend, I should tell you now that she's not your girlfriend. Similarly, if you're one of these 'fans' who suddenly shows up at your local club when there's a shiny new trinket on display, it's not your club.]

Rant over. Sort of. We (Ben and I) get a feel for our surroundings as Alan Birchenall completes the last few laps of his 277th annual end-of-season run round the pitch. Just like the previous couple of hundred, this is his last one. This is as good an air as I've ever experienced here in the life of this young stadium.

[Brief segment of reflection for the benefit of Leicester fans:

Since it opened in the 2002 pre-season campaign we've seen some piss-awful games of football at the Walkers Stadium: the 0-0 draw with Lincoln in the Paint Pot was probably the worst thing I've ever seen, and that's up against almost every home game last season - especially Sheffield Wednesday (1-3) - and the season before - especially Sheffield Wednesday (1-4). We've seen a visiting goalkeeper (Preston's Andy Lonergan) score from his own box, we've seen our own goalkeeper assailed by one of our fans during a five-nowt twatting by Aston Villa, we've seen a painfully long string of substandard players come and go: the likes of Alan Rogers, John Curtis, Peter Canero, Rab Douglas, Momo Sylla, Josh Low, Mark de Vries, Carl Cort, Sergio Hellings and Jimmy Neilsen brought little save abject ineptitude to the City shirt. That sounds like a long list, but if you think about it for a moment there are literally several dozen more. This is just a small sample of the utter shit we've had to endure.

On the positive side, we've also seen glamour friendlies (Celtic, Internazionale and, erm, Real Sociedad), cup ties with Premiership sides (an inexplicable 3-2 win over Tottenham; a 3-2 extra time defeat to Villa), as well as tense and/or thrilling league games (David Connolly hat-trick in a 4-2 win over Stoke; this season's games with Leeds and Huddersfield). We've also had a season in the Premiership, including that oft-replayed Lilian Nalis goal. Gradually the stadium is getting its own history and while it's a long way from matching that of Filbert Street, tonight is a big step towards feeling like home. Especially since Coventry have never got so much as a point here.]

Before kick-off, we're treated to a special announcement: the club confirm the signing of defender Jack Hobbs (not the cricketer) on a four year contract. This, boys and girls, is fantastic news. Hobbs has been immense this season. But for a brief period early in the season when injury to Kerrea Gilbert saw him forced to play at right-back, where he was clearly uncomfortable, he's been an absolutely vital part of the team. This is a massive signing for City, and the announcement is rightly cheered throughout the blue section of the stadium. I get two texts from Laura - another failed effort to get a mention.

The game is almost a sideshow - the result of this could be anything, it won't affect where City finish in the table. Even if, in an ill-advised protest, our players decide to ship 149 own goals, we'll still be champions.

[For anyone who doesn't get the reference and wants to, I suggest reading a little about football in Madagascar.]

As it happens, the game isn't too bad. City go in front when a Max Gradel corner meets the head of Steve Howard, whose effort rebounds to Michael Morrison, who sweeps it into the net.

At half time, we're treated to a penalty shoot-out starring several local sports heroes. Leicestershire wicketkeeper Paul Nixon hits the bar - twice. Former Leicester Tiger Austin Healey and ex-City defenders Steve Walsh, Gerry Taggart and Matt Elliott all fail to beat former City keeper Carl Muggleton. Muzzy Izzet, England rugby boss and ex-Tiger Martin Johnson and EBU super bantamweight champion Rendall Munroe all coolly deliver theirs into the bag.

[Lame to fame: I've sparred with, and consequently been punched in the face by, a pre-pro Rendall. It hurts.]

Shortly before the hour mark, Paul Hayes equalises from a Matt Sparrow cross for Scunny. Less than ten minutes later, Bruno Berner's desperate hauling down of Hayes results in a spot kick for the visitors, which is neatly despatched by Grant McCann. Late on, however, Jack Hobbs heads across goal and Morrison deflects the ball into the top corner for his second of the night and the sixth of his career.

[I'm stunned that people are leaving before the final whistle. Why anyone would opt to miss the presentation of the league trophy is beyond me utterly. To get this in perspective, this is City's first league title since 1980. That means it's the only one City have won in my lifetime. It's only the seventh ever - the other six being a level higher in what was then Division Two. I genuinely hate the culture of leaving before the end of the game and sincerely believe that anybody caught doing so should have their away ticket priority downgraded and their season tickets immediately moved to the Family Stand.]

The game expires as a fair 2-2 draw. Inconsequential to the home side, a decent point for the visitors. As most of the Iron fans quickly depart, some of them stick around to watch what the home fans are all staying to see. The last home game until August is over, and the applause is offered towards the pitch.

A cheap-looking archway bearing the logos of both Coca-Cola and the Football League is carried onto the pitch and stood up facing the west stand. Four segments of a similarly-coloured stage are laboriously carried onto the pitch over a period of about 75 minutes (okay, that's a lie, but it's taking far longer than it needs to). Eventually, the glimmering pot we all came to see makes its appearance. The players arrive back on the pitch and the names of every squad member present are read out by a muffled Birch. The squad comfortably assembled on the temporary stage, captain Matt Oakley lifts their reward into the air, to resounding approval by those who remain. Max Gradel in particular enjoys the celebrations, bouncing around like a hyperactive child after six cans of Tango.

Well after ten o'clock, the crowd starts to gradually filter out of the stadium. This is the fifty-fourth game I've watched this season, and nights like tonight are the reason we do these things. We take the miserable rainy and/or cold midweek trips to Brighton and Colchester and Hartlepool (twice) and Tranmere so that the wins taste so much better. And they really do.

[Discussion of a football issue:

This week Phil Gartside presented proposals for a restructured Premier League. What the Bolton chief wants, you see, is a two-tier, 36-team Premier League. Straight away I can see the benefits here. Gartside's idea chops four league games off the current Premier League schedule, which makes perfect sense to me and probably everyone else. So, a 34-game season to reduce the workload on players. Presumably this structure would also mean more money for more clubs. All good so far, and this part of the proposal I think is a very good idea.

However, one thing that was apparently not discussed with Gartside's Premier League counterparts this week but is nonetheless part of the plan is the inclusion of Glasgow's Old Firm, Celtic and Rangers. This is something that has been discussed on and off (mostly on) for some time. I'm of the opinion that there are further questions that need to be asked and answered before this is even blueprinted. Here are the ones I'd start with:

Question 1: What effect will this have on Scottish football?
Answer: A massive, and negative, one. The Old Firm, unfortunately, dominate the SPL and are therefore the life support machine keeping it alive. The Old Firm is pretty much the only reason the SPL gets any television money. Can you imagine Setanta or Sky forking out hundreds of millions of pounds for the rights to cover a league contested by Aberdeen, Kilmarnock and Hearts? Of course you can't. The life support machine will have been switched off. So the way I see it, if Celtic and Rangers depart, there are two possibilities:
(a) the SPL carries on without the big two, and it either shrinks back to ten teams or the SFL poaches the non-league scene again for two replacement clubs, or
(b) the entire SPL and SFL are absorbed into the English league system.
The lesser of two unnecessary evils is (b). That's right, if the Old Firm crosses the border, the other 40 teams should be allowed to as well. The problem here is, they're both stupid ideas. Picture the away end at Ross County v Gillingham.

Question 2: Would the inclusion of Scottish teams add to the quality of English football?
Answer: No. Not in the short-term or in the long-run. Short-term, in terms of squad quality, both Rangers and Celtic are on a par with Championship promotion contenders. Financially, they're more like Championship strugglers. This point isn't up for debate - it's a fact. Their squads are made up of players picked up from the likes of Burnley and Cardiff. Currently, if a player has a straight choice between a move to Wigan or Rangers, chances are he'll start looking at houses in the Lancashire area. If the Old Firm was thrown into this new two-tier Premier League, I'd have a guess that they'd be at best yo-yo clubs for the first few seasons. It'd be like having two extra Newcastles - great fans filling massive grounds to watch average teams. What would be the point? And in the long term, they'd just establish themselves as two more run-of-the-mill sides. Utterly worthless inclusions, both.

Question 3: Does it make any sense?
Answer: Not one bit. One need only think about the present geography of 'English' football to answer this one. In the 'English' league, we could have Cardiff, from south Wales, playing Rangers, from Scotland. It's enough of a nonsense that Cardiff, Swansea, Wrexham etc are allowed in in the first place without adding Scottish teams to the mix, but the Welsh teams have been here for decades and are part of the English football family, despite not being English. The only history Scottish teams have in English football is way back in 1884 and 1885 when Queen's Park reached two FA Cup finals. But in this nonsensical world where any club in Britain can join the English league system, where do you draw the line? Over and above the scenario pictured a couple of paragraphs ago, whereby all the Scottish teams join a logistical nightmare of a football league, what's stopping us absorbing the League of Wales and the IFA Premiership. I love Northern Ireland as a place but I've no fucking intention of going to an away match against Dungannon Swifts in the League Cup. Anyone who thinks I'm being deliberately obscure there is right - but why are Dungannon Swifts or Haverfordwest County or Stranraer any more ludicrous than Celtic?

Question 4: Would it work?
Answer: No. You think it'd be bad enough for supporters of English teams to have to go to Glasgow twice a season? For fans of Rangers and Celtic, almost every away game would mean crossing the border. You wouldn't blame them if they took one look at the fixture list and threw the towel in. It's not just the fans though - what effect would it have on both the players and the non-playing staff of both clubs to be shuttling back and forth every fortnight?

It seems obvious that the English league system should never include the Old Firm, or any other foreign clubs. To go in that direction is to move towards the dreaded European super league, where Manchester United and Chelsea are forever playing Juventus and Barcelona, and none of the small clubs (and by small I mean anything smaller than Liverpool) would get so much as a look-in.]

That was long for a home match.

Fuck off Laura.

Final score: Leicester 2 Scunthorpe 2

It's party time

2009-04-20T14:44:00.003+01:00

April 18th: Southend United v Leicester City (League One)

I've lost count of the times doing everything on the cheap has got me out of bed at three in the morning or earlier. Usual routine and I'm out of the house at about 3.10. For the first half hour I encounter almost nobody of interest, and then on the opposite side of Saffron Lane I see someone training for the Drunk Olympics (Glasgow 2009). He appears to be in preparation for the 5km Running In A More Or Less Straight Line, Sort Of. It's going very well. In the ten seconds I watch him he staggers into the middle of the road and back to the pavement three times, then goes over on his ankle. As I watch him limp back into action I start to wonder what the funniest Olympic sport would be when performed by drunks. 100m hurdles? Pole vault? Archery? Answers in the comments section below. Funniest suggestion wins fuck all.

I remember to check the time as I pass the Walkers Stadium - 3.48. That's 38 minutes - I'm getting quicker! Pretty soon I'll be doing it in five. If I move somewhere nearer the stadium. As has been the case on an unusual number of occasions this year, I arrive at the bus station pretty much exactly when I expected at 4.15. Eight minutes later (that's dead on schedule) the coach to London rolls up. Having only slept about two hours, I fully intend to catch up on the way there. Everyone's doing it. At Northampton I'm still wide awake - it's 5.19. A woman gets on with a small kid, who is also wide awake. Very excited about seeing her dad you see. I don't imagine anybody in earshot gets a moment of sleep for the rest of the journey. The child's guardian makes no attempt whatsoever to stop her shouting, screaming or crying. Me? I give up on the idea well before Milton Keynes and am trying to find a higher volume setting on my iPod. No such luck.

Liverpool Street to Prittlewell is less than an hour on the train, so I have about seven spare hours. First, breakfast at Il Corriere - no going back there until next season now so one last trip was definitely in order. Into the railway station to investigate the situation with the underground - occasionally there's something closed, either a line or a station for some reason so it's always a good idea to check. Before getting downstairs I see a large billboard. An advert for Southern Trains says:

CHICHESTER, THE NEW COPENHAGEN

No further explanation. Just that one blatant lie. Advertising is brilliant entertainment.

Anyway, let's go downstairs and see what the story is with the underground. This being FA Cup semi-final weekend, of course, there are no fewer than four lines partially closed. I make my way to King's Cross (free, and relatively clean, toilets remember?) via Embankment, then on to Liverpool Street. On a giant screen I see the BREAKING NEWS on Sky, and it's big: Liverpool suspend Itandje. Okay, it's not big. It seems Charles Itandje, Liverpool's reserve goalkeeper and a man of 26, was caught on camera laughing and joking during the Hillsborough memorial service.

[Having watched footage of the 'incident' I'm of the opinion that a suspension is disproportionate. Even so, you have to know what to be in every situation, even if nobody knows who you are. Want to fuck about? Do it in the dressing room, not at a function where people want to remember tragically-killed relatives.]

I have a walk round the surrounding area before making my way back in and deciding the area around St Pancras is better. Back there, I run into several Derby fans on their way to Selhurst Park. I really hope they win. I know that sounds weird but there's nothing in the world funnier - nothing - than Colin getting beaten. It's invariably the referee's fault, never that of his players.

Back at Liverpool Street I walk onto a stationary and almost empty train. The carriage I end up sitting in has just one other person in it. Some time into the journey we pass London Southend Airport.

[London Southend Airport? No, sorry, it's one or the other. Given that it's pretty much in Southend, how about just Southend Airport? Airports seem to be vulnerable to idiotic naming systems though. A few years ago someone thought it would be a fantastic idea to rename East Midlands Airport. Apparently people unfamiliar with British geography wouldn't be able to guess where a region called the East Midlands might be.

So to the renaming exercise. It's in Leicestershire, but Leicestershire Airport doesn't have much of a ring to it. It's near Derby, has a Derby postcode, but Derby Airport would be just wrong. Donnington Airport? No. They went with Nottingham East Midlands Airport, despite it not being anywhere near Nottingham. The new name did not last long, and it is now called East Midlands Airport: Nottingham, Leicester, Derby. That might be even worse, given that it's not really anywhere near Leicester either. How about East Midlands Airport?

The king of all stupid airport names, however, is Robin Hood Airport Doncaster Sheffield. That's just nonsense.]

Anyway, shortly afterwards the train arrives at Prittlewell and after helping a young couple carry a pram containing sleeping two-month-old twin girls up the station stairs I wander off towards the town centre. It's coming up to noon.

"OOAREYA!?!?!?!?!" I turn in the direction of the shouting and for a moment can think of no other reaction than staring and blinking, before realising what's going on. Nigel and Paul are Leicester fans with tickets in the home end - with a few more than 2000 tickets available to City fans for this fixture, that's to be expected. I manage to take up something like half an hour of their day just chatting away about - what else - away days. As they go off in search of alcohol I go in the other direction in search of food.

I walk along the main road, past Southend Victoria station and into a shopping centre named after it. Nothing particularly tempting in there though, and I'm about to look for the exit when I see Salvo the Clown doing what clowns generally do, id est things that aren't funny.

[Clowns are shit. Nobody will ever convince me otherwise. On the list of embarrassing answers to the question "what do you do for a living?" the answers just below "clown" are "PCSO", "traffic warden", "Talk Talk customer service call centre worker", "I've never had a job" and "I sell pictures of myself on the internet". There is nothing above clown.]

After wandering around what must surely be one of the country's crappest towns, I find a place to sit down and eat. A van pulls up at the traffic lights outside. The Local Yokel is apparently an egg and potato delivery service. The promise they make to their customers is: You won't reggret it! See what they've done there? Very good.

At about 1.30 I reach the stadium and see a table set up outside the away fans' entrance. T-shirts £8, scarves £5. The t-shirts look pretty good, sort of, but the scarves are not. For one thing, it says 'DIVISION ONE CHAMPIONS' on it. Surely they know by now that this isn't 'Division One'? I know, pedantic, and I hate to be pedantic (by which I mean, I love to be pedantic), but wrong is wrong. Simple as that.

Next to the table is a bloke holding up a torn-off bit of cardboard. On it he's scrawled '2 tickets needed will pay good price'. Good luck there mate. I turn away to talk to someone else, then turn back to find he's gone. One of the security staff explains that another section of the ground has been opened up to City fans, just over an hour before the game is due to start. What a stupid thing to do. Why not open these seats up two days ago when it was sold out and people were all but offering to sell their bodies for tickets?

I stand outside the stadium for a short while watching faces. A couple of familiar ones come into view, acknowledge, and carry on. Then Paul turns up with wife Janice, whose name I got right last time, and daughter Helen, who I've never met before today. Helen's an attractive and intelligent young woman, so I'm guessing she gets that from her mother.

I find my view is only slightly obscured by the supporting pillar, which is at least better than the view I had last time I was at Roots Hall. The away end fills up around me, and I see some of the usual faces as well as a few I don't recognise. There's always someone new to talk to.

The first half is, in a word, awful. Not a lot to talk about there so I won't. The second half starts a bit better, with Theo Robinson rattling the bar for the home side early on. About fifteen minutes after the restart, Simon Francis handballs in the box to give City a spot kick right in front of the travelling support. Matty Fryatt slots the ball into the bottom corner to give the already-enthusiastic party a bit of a lift. Ten minutes later a Lloyd Dyer free-kick hits the bar and drops onto the head of Fryatt, who easily bags his 31st goal of the season. The remaining twenty minutes see a few further chances but the game finishes 2-0. With two games still to play, Leicester are champions.

On and off the pitch, the celebrations are generally well-behaved. The players appear to have enjoyed the success as much as we have. In particular, Max Gradel, Kerrea Gilbert and Lloyd Dyer seem to be over the moon. Understandable really. Last season, Gradel was relegated with Bournemouth. Gilbert has been sent out on loan by Arsenal countless times without any real success. Dyer was dumped by West Brom but has now won two league titles in two seasons. Nigel Pearson's got every reason to be delighted too; despite having a squad of players low on confidence and, to be honest, ability, he kept Southampton up last season only to find he wasn't being offered a contract. He then joined the club he helped to send down and has dragged it back up again by the ear. Meanwhile, Southampton look to be losing the battle this season. They could have done with a Pearson I reckon.

I decide to go straight back to London and kill my time there instead of in Southend. The train appears to skip a few stations, although that might just be my imagination. On arriving at Liverpool Street, I decide another wander is in order. A quick glance at the tv in the pub tells me Chelsea have equalised against Arsenal. Not convinced I care about that to be honest. The FA Cup is something of an irrelevance to Leicester fans after about round four. I find a tube map and start trying to remember which sections of which lines are closed. I start to ask the two girls already standing there "Do you know if there's a... You're not from round here are you?" Nope, Eastbourne. Natalie and Charlotte are trying to get to Shepherds Bush for something or other but they can't.
"Why not?"
"Because the tube station's closed."
"Erm, what?"
"It's closed."
"What do you mean it's closed? No it isn't."
"Yeah it is."
"No. No, it's definitely not."
"It is!"
"Follow me."
I walk back to where I just came from, and lead Natalie, of the tongue stud, too much make-up and hoop earrings, and her friend Charlotte to the busy entrance of the underground station.
"Doesn't look closed to me."

Eventually I make my way to Leicester Square, which is certain to provide some form of entertainment. I check out the Odeon, then Vue. I might not be completely stable mentally, but I know that I have a limit on what I'll pay for a cinema visit. I walk about twenty yards and am handed no fewer than three flyers for various comedy clubs. After serious consideration, and a chat to Tim who hands me a fourth, I find a third cinema and decide a tenner is reasonable.

Fast and Furious isn't an option, because it's got Vin Diesel in it. Duplicity, starring Julia Roberts and Clive Owen is the next film starting, so that seems the sensible option. It's a somewhat enjoyable film, but for some minor annoyances, and it kills two hours nicely. It's 11.04, so I need to rush back to the tube station so I don't miss my 11.30 coach. Two stops on the Northern Line to Embankment, chat to Gary and Rachel, two more stops on the Circle to Victoria. It's 11.17. Off the train, run up the stairs, over to the escalators - they're closed. Fuck. Out the side exit, down the road, and into the coach station. It's 11.23. Find the gate number, swear several times because it's as far away as possible, and make my way rapidly to the other end of the station. 11.27, join the end of the line of people waiting to board. Job done.

After catching my breath I somehow start to chat to the two girls in front of me, Fran and Gemma, and it turns out they live quite near me. I don't know whether they're exceptionally trusting or I'm coming across as someone completely harmless but anyway they offer to let me share their taxi as far as their house. At 2am, then, I wake up and that's exactly what we do. It's good to meet the occasional nice person in a stream of lunatics.

Only a twenty minute walk to round off a memorable 24 hours, very pleasant temperature and a good set of memories from the day. Now to look forward to Friday. Make sure you polish that trophy before you bring it won't you Brian.

Forgive me for repeating myself: Leicester are champions.

Final score: Southend 0 Leicester 2
Ticket: £19.60
Coach: £2
Train: £12.30
Travelcard: £5.60
Total: £39.50

Filbert Jagger

2009-04-14T19:00:00.003+01:00

April 13th: Leicester City v Leeds United (League One)

Isn't 12.15 a stupid kick-off time? Still, it's not caused any problems for anyone so I think to dwell on that would be to complain about a non-problem. I'm walking to the ground in under forty minutes these days, whereas before it was over fifty. All that cardio you see. As I approach I start to wonder where the hell all these extra people have come from - strange how an extra five thousand people turn up for a game against Leeds isn't it? Where were they all for the Carlisle game?

This of course is, to use a hackneyed phrase, the business end of the season. A few things could be decided in the Football League and the Blue Square Premier today - Luton could be relegated from League Two, while Cheltenham could be forced back into it. Charlton could suffer the same fate from the Championship only two years after coming back down from the Premiership, and Leicester could be promoted back to the second tier after just one season away. Burton Albion could confirm their status as a league club for the first time in their history if they win a Kidderminster. It could be an interesting day.

It seems the club have decided to pull out all the stops for today's game - probably because it's on Sky. Before the start, after the presentations for the benefit of the cameras, some bloke on the pitch makes a load of tuneless noise through a presumably damaged wind instrument. The teams are shown on the scoreboard. Leeds players Luciano Becchio and Sam Sodje have their names spelt wrong (Beccio and Sodjie). You'd expect a professional football club to get these things right every time.

The first half is a superb battle as the two sides look to take control of the game and show their superiority. After a very attacking first half, the whistle blows with the score somehow at 0-0. At half time, it becomes obvious that there's a deliberate effort from someone within the club to make it look like a two-bit outfit when some fat bloke called Joseph, who has suspiciously dark hair, sings for almost the entire interval. It's interminable, and only made bearable by City's mascot, Filbert, uprooting a corner flag and using it as both a microphone and a guitar and dancing about in front of the Kop. I'm not a fan of football mascots but this is genuinely one of the funniest things I've seen at football.

The game restarts and it's more of the same, and the game transpires to be a really entertaining contest, but still no goals come. In the 88th minute, Ben and I are talking about the permutations for the promotion picture, and agreeing that a point is a good haul from this game. The fourth official raises his board to reveal only two minutes of added time*. The attacking continues though, and City get a corner. To use yet another extremely hackneyed phrase, this is the last throw of the dice. Max Gradel's corner floats towards the middle of the penalty area and sure enough Steve Howard leaps in perfect time, smashing a header into Casper Ankergren's net. The entire stadium erupts in frenzied celebration. Moments later the referee's whistle blows - City have won on tv!

[*Pedantry section: 'Added time', as opposed to 'extra time'. 'Extra time' is two fifteen minute periods after a game in which a draw is not an option, for example cup or play-off games. 'Added time' (also 'injury time') is time added onto the original ninety to make up for time lost with injuries, goals, substitutions and so on, and is usually between one and five or six minutes. Or eleven if Manchester United are losing at Old Trafford. 'Extra time' and 'added time' are different things. Yes, I realise that 'added time' is literally 'extra' time, but if you call it 'extra time' you're just confusing the issue. It is not 'extra time', and calling it such is wrong. You might as well call it 'penalty shoot out' or 'maiden over', because that's just as accurate.]

Fair play to Leeds, not only their fans for coming down in very impressive numbers but also their team for not giving a fuck where in the league their opposition were. They've got some dangerous players - ex-Swansea midfielder Andy Robinson, who looked very threatening today, Argentine hairdband enthusiast Becchio, coveted Bradford-born midfielder Fabian Delph, local lad Jonny Howson, Scottish winger Robert Snodgrass, Slovakian Bolton reject Lubomir Michalik, Danish keeper Ankergren and ex-non-league goal machine Jermaine Beckford, who fortunately for us didn't play today. If they don't go up through the play-offs this season they should be battering this league next term. If they do go up, they should be able to look after themselves in the Championship.

There are no other results available due to the early kick-off here, so as soon as I get home it's on with the tv to keep up with developments elsewhere. Cheltenham's win keeps them alive for another week at least, while Charlton's goalless draw at Coventry means they can still stay up - in theory. Milton Keynes Dons beat Bristol Rovers 2-1 to prevent the little P appearing next to Leicester in the league table until at least Saturday, and despite being put ahead by City flop Lee Morris, Burton fall to a 2-1 defeat at Kidderminster, meaning they still need results to seal their title. The one thing that is confirmed is Luton's inevitable drop into the BSP, something that was always going to happen after they were mugged for 30 points by the Football League. Well done staying alive as long as you did boys, and on taking the Football League Trophy with you. I'm sure most Luton fans would swap that trinket for league status though, and most real football people hope you're back soon. Good fight.

Final score: Leicester 1 Leeds 0

Yes you fucking are...

2009-04-14T18:24:00.002+01:00

April 11th: Hereford United v Leicester City (League One)

I arrive at South Wigston station with seconds to spare. The 5.55 train actually leaves at 5.54. I'm not being picky here - trains shouldn't leave early, even half a minute. The reason I'm up this early is simply because I woke up at 4.30 and decided not to go back to sleep. There's one other person in the carriage. At Narborough that becomes four as three of his friends join him. At Hinckley it's up to about nine. They're football fans, but I can't work out who until one of them passes me to find somewhere to put his rubbish. I didn't realise there were so many Blackpool fans living in Leicestershire. They're on their way to a local derby against the hated Preston. I chat to him for a short while about football and, mostly, away match travel (awkwardly, the Preston-Blackpool game kicks off at 1pm).

[Sunderland chairman Niall Quinn has this week spoken about the disregard for fans by the powers that be. Their game at Portsmouth, originally scheduled for Saturday, May 16th, has been moved to the following Monday for television coverage. This means that rather than having a 700-mile round trip on a weekend, which would be bad enough, the Black Cats' following will instead have to do it on a weekday. The people who make these decisions apparently do not realise that missing games is simply not an option for some fans. We've known this all along, of course, but I'm delighted that someone within football has finally said something about it.]

The train arrives at Birmingham New Street shortly before 7. WH Smith is the first stop for the new World Soccer and today's Star. I investigate the bus stop map to find out where the next connection is (not far away), then walk towards the nearby market. At one of the vans offering hot food there's a young woman shivering and blowing onto a cup of tomato soup. She smiles at me from a distance. I buy myself a tea and we start to chat. Samantha works at a nearby sportswear shop, and is extraordinarily friendly for someone who's just been told over the phone that they needn't have come in until 8. After twenty minutes, as she walks off in one direction I go the other to find a drink and somewhere to eat breakfast later, then make my way back to New Street to meet Ben, who's joining me for the portion of the day between Birmingham and Hereford. He arrives earlier than originally planned and that gives us an extra fifteen minutes to fit in breakfast.

The 9.55 bus to Worcester arrives on time, and after forking over £5.50 each (bargain) for a Wyvern area day ticket we sit towards the back. Early on in the journey, he starts to read the various magazines I've brought along for just that purpose as I observe the people around us and their conversations. A young woman gets on a few stops into the journey and sits on the very back seat. As I'm facing backwards this is a little awkward for me - her position and size (she's not a small lass) mean that every time I look up, by default I'm looking directly at her. I'm not making eyes at her but I'm sure it seems like I am. Not once does the sour-faced cow smile. She doesn't last long though; she's gone before we reach Northfield. Speaking of which, what a fucking shithole. I mention to Ben something he already knows but it feels necessary to point out: you can tell that it's a shit area because there's a Cash Converters here.

[Funny how marketing works isn't it? These places all have big signs bearing promises such as 'Cheques cashed instantly' or 'We give you £££ for your mum's jewellery' or 'instant loans available here'. It's not until you're inside that they give you the attached stipulations for these promises, which are, respectively, 'for a fee of 99.2%', 'we'll give you a tenth of its actual worth' and 'at two hundred million per cent APR'.]

On my left, there's a man taking Nurofen and washing them down with Lucozade. Nice lunch. As we reach Bromsgrove, he is replaced by a middle-aged couple. I hear the woman say "We could've gone to Stourbridge!" Yeah, an opportunity lost there I reckon. At around 11.30, the bus arrives in Worcester city centre. Not for the first time today, what a fucking shithole. With half an hour to kill before the 420 to Hereford, we wander through the shopping centre, into the city centre which feels like the set of Life on Mars, and into the bookie's. Ben places an accumulator bet, predicting wins for City over Hereford, Liverpool over Blackburn, Rangers over Motherwell, Leeds over Stockport, Manchester United over Sunderland and, at my suggestion, Raith Rovers over Alloa. I'm tempted to stick an extra quid on top of his bet of, er, a quid, but in my experience accumulator bets rarely come up winners. Well, Ben's accumulator bets rarely come up. Remembering his text message from last week, I decide in silence to retain my money.

Another bus trip of similar length but very different scenery takes us into Hereford for about 1.15. Time for some more food, so into the Walk Cafe near the bus station. This place is alright - the large orange juice is £1, and large means a pint. At any pub, you'd pay twice as much for a third of the drink. On our way out, Ben's map comes out. I should explain really. I, you may have noticed, am happy to play most things by ear if I deem it safe to do so. Ben, on the other hand, has to have military preparation. Hence, he has all the bus connection times and a map of the area between the bus station and the ground. Five minutes later, we're asking directions of an escaped mental patient, who obliges in his best Welsh, complete with conflicting arm gestures, shouted through the stub of a roll-up attached to his bottom lip with something liberated from Bostik's industrial division until we're well out of earshot.

A text message from Paul confirms that he's already in the ground - it's 2pm. He's found himself a nice spot right behind the goal. We make our way down to the Cargill Stand, which is opposite the main stand, giving us a side-on view of the game. The terrace fills up around us, and several twats manage to locate themselves quite nearby.

Shortly after the game begins, it becomes apparent that we can't see the near corner to our left owing to a very thick supporting pillar. This must be the sort of view Stuart Atwell has when he referees games. A bloke in a baseball cap has positioned himself on my left, and has been spitting on the ground approximately every four seconds. City control the early going and look good to go ahead, but on a rare Hereford attack in the 29th minute, Joe Mattock needlessly fouls Jennison Myrie-Williams, leaving ex-Cheltenham striker Steve Guinan to put the Bulls in front. More spitting.

[Interestingly, Myrie-Williams is related to the late camp actor Kenneth Williams, Miami Dolphins dope fiend Ricky Williams, shouting homophobic dancehall lunatic Mark Myrie and the Western Australian backwater Williams. No he's not. I just thought it'd be fun to lie about that. Turns out I was right.]

Shortly afterwards, a Matt Oakley free-kick misses everyone and sails into the far corner at the other end to pull City level. Further spitting from the idiot, then soon he reads aloud several scores from the scoreboard. Surely the bloke standing to his immediate left can read them himself? Then more spitting.

[Surely this arsehole's taking the piss. I can accept that maybe once he felt he had to do it, perhaps he's a smoker or has a cold or for some other reason there's a build-up of fluid in his throat. It's not pleasant to see, or even hear, but I can accept it. But constant spitting, apparently for the sake of it, is the behaviour or a cunt and worthy of a good shoeing. I sincerely hope he gets it.]

The players come back out after the interval to enthused applause. The spitter has relocated to behind me, from where he proceeds to verbally abuse Matty Fryatt, ostensibly for being fat but actually for no reason at all. After a tense period in which one or two decisions go against City and the fans get on the backs of the referee and linesman, a Steve Howard effort is headed onto the bar and the rebound drops to Lloyd Dyer, who ripples the net from six yards. Chaos in the away areas, and I grab at least three people around me.

[During the abuse of the linesman, someone at the back accuses him of being 'so unfit it's unbelievable'. I turn around and see his accuser. He looks like someone who eats a large pie and chips for every meal, washed down with several pints of lager. He couldn't run the London Marathon on an A-Z.]

Later, a wonderful piece of trickery by Max Gradel (a player who I admit I said was shit earlier in the season) allows him to run almost to goal before playing an obvious ball to Steve Howard, who simply knocks the ball into an empty net. Howard may have his name on the scoresheet, but Gradel created that goal out of nothing. Late in the game, the attendance figures show up on the scoreboard. 4389 is the official attendance, 1924 of which are in the away end. Then something odd happens - attention turns to a sole Cheltenham shirt among the Leicester fans, and a peculiar chant of "Cheltenham! Cheltenham! Cheltenham!" begins. I've no idea why a Cheltenham fan is here, or why he's in the Leicester end, but he's welcome anyway.

As we reach the main road on the way back to the bus station, I notice that the escaped mental patient has finished shouting directions at us and has moved on. Good for him. Ben informs me that he's won his bet, so let's hope that betting shop is still open. A short wander around kills the time before the bus back to Worcester. We end up sitting behind an old bloke who's just been to the game. Friendly enough, I manage to catch that he's more of a Worcester City fan than a Hereford fan - he only comes to see the latter a couple of times a season, whereas Worcester have been enjoying his patronage since 1947. A little over an hour later, as we arrive in Worcester and part ways, I notice I've got hardly anyone's name today. Funny how the presence of another person can subconsciously change tiny details of your behaviour - as far as I can tell this is the only thing I've done differently today, but it's a small sacrifice for having someone else around to assure me I'm not utterly mental.

After collecting his winnings from the bookie (£7.56), we go back to the bus station to find our stop. At the stop, there's a young woman, an older and more inebriated woman, and Doctor Who. It's probably not actually Doctor Who, but the similarity to Tom Baker with his multicoloured scarf and loony bin hairdo is astounding. The young woman is giving ill-considered advice to the obviously pissed-up woman (her suggested solution to the woman's suspicions about her daughter using drugs is "just try not to think about it". Yeah, good advice that). The Doctor is peripheral to the discussion.

The bus arrives early and the three idiots board in front of us. The Doctor sits at the front, the other two are near us at the back. The pissed-up woman assures me she's not drunk, even though she manifestly is abysmally shitfaced. She gets her mobile phone out, and starts to talk loudly into it to her partner. There's a small group of teenage girls in front of us, and the young woman who got on with her realigns herself with them. I don't think she knows them, rather she just wanted to get away from the twat at the back, who is of increasing annoyance. To my amazement, my iPod is on before Ben's. From that point, the only thing I hear from her before she alights at Bromsgrove is the "FUCK OFF!" which terminates one of her many calls to the same person.

During the journey, I notice we enter and very soon exit a village called Martin Hussingtree. That's a superb name for a place.

As the pissed-up woman departs, Ben tells me that her behaviour was a cycle of talking on the phone, putting it down in a huff, crying, then dialling again. What a stupid cunt.

[Her protests of "I'm not pissed" are laughable, and can only be considered accurate if pissed suddenly means 'sober', which it doesn't.]

A Bromsgrove Rovers shirt appears at the front of the bus. Inside it is Steve, who sits opposite us with fellow Rovers fan Andrew, on their way home from a 1-0 win over Barton Rovers in the Southern League Division One Midlands - that's seven levels below the Premier$hip. These guys are more than just normal fans though. Steve has missed one game this season, Andrew two. Steve writes the match reports for the matchday programme, unpaid. Andrew is looking after the under-18s game on Monday, unpaid. Both are stewards, unpaid. Both have previously been makeshift groundsmen, unpaid. These men are what football is all about, and make me look part-time. Anyone who goes to Bury Town away on a week night in addition to helping actually run the club for no reward other than seeing their team play is a football person through and through. It's not often I meet people who know more about the game than me, but these blokes have got me beaten, no competition. And meeting them has made a superb day even better. From this encounter, I vow to take a trip to a Bromsgrove game at some point next season.

The bus arrives back at New Street about ten minutes before the next train home departs, so from this point I'm on my own. The train journey is an opportunity to come down from the highs of what has been an exceptional day, and I spend the entirety staring at the black of the window. A slow and quiet twenty minute walk home rounds the day off perfectly.

Doing it my way alone is brilliant, but going with someone else offers an entirely new angle, especially when that other person is incredibly organised to the point where you feel like no time at all has passed.

Fantastic day all round.

Final score: Hereford 1 Leicester 3
Ticket: £13
Train: £9.20
Bus: £5.50
Total: £27.70

And they're off!

2009-04-06T12:40:00.003+01:00

April 4th: Leicester City v Carlisle United (League One)

It's a big day today. Not because of this massive third tier fixture, although it is important, but because there are two other major events today. The first is the funeral of Jade Goody. The televised funeral of Jade Goody. The second event scribbled into the calendar for today is the Grand National, which is about as 21st century as having a dancing bear or beating your wife. Let's not spend too much time on these.

I manage to arrive at the game fifteen minutes before kick-off, and have a quick chat to the usual people. About ten minutes into the game, the little bastard a few seats to my left wants to go for a piss, forcing us all to stand up. Little shit.

[GO BEFORE THE FUCKING GAME! All other areas of the stadium should be closed as soon as the first whistle blows, opened for exactly fifteen minutes at half-time for pies, pints and pisses, and then not opened again until the final whistle for any reason other than emergency. If the second half begins and you're still buying a burger, tough shit. Fuck off home.]

Joe Anyinsah and Cleveland Taylor cause a lot of problems for City's defence and each look capable of scoring in the first half. Approaching the half-time whistle, a neat ball from midfield is met by Michael Bridges, who lifts his shot over Tony Warner to give Carlisle the lead. As soon as the whistle goes, I switch the iPod on so as to avoid other scores. Turns out it needs to be pretty loud - to completely drown out the stadium announcer I need a much higher volume setting. I manage to make it though, and off it goes when he's done. There's another relay race around the pitch with some kids. One of the teams appear to be wearing Hinckley United kits, but I wasn't really listening when the Birch announced the teams. As usual, there's one really fast kid on the last leg who wipes out the other team's massive lead. I think it's a draw.

Early in the second half, Lloyd Dyer breaks superbly down the left and crosses for Matt Oakley to smash in an equaliser. In the 69th minute, the Grand National result flashes up on the scoreboard to widespread apathy. I find amusement in the fact that a 100-1 outsider has won. That and the text message from Ben two minutes later saying he'd lost forty quid. Apologies to Ben but if you're going to piss forty quid away at the bookies on something as unpredictable as horse racing you deserve everything you get.

Three minutes from the end, another Dyer cross finds the head of Matty Fryatt, and City lead 2-1. Enthusiastic celebrations are followed by the typical "you're not singing any moooooore" chant, given to our visitors as a souvenir to enjoy on the extremely long journey home. In injury time, substitute Scott Dobie gives them an even better present, rising above Wayne Brown to head a leveller in the last seconds. Fuck.

News that Peterborough have won means City's lead at the top is now two points, down from nine at the beginning of March. At the present rate, we're going to finish third and have to go through the play-offs. That's something nobody wants.

As always, today I've found myself intrigued by the utterances of people around me, my favourite of which was "them two coloured lads..." in reference to Taylor and Anyinsah. How the word 'coloured' gets used in reference to racial group anywhere but 1980s South Africa I'll never know.

Finally, condolences to fans of Fortuna Sittard. I wonder how many of them will be watching the new club, Sporting Limburg. Hopefully not many. Actually, it'll be interesting to see how many Roda fans turn up as well. Same team, same stadium, different name. Would Leicester fans turn up to watch East Midlands United, formed from a merger with Nottingham Forest, even if they played at the Walkers? I fucking wouldn't.

Final score: Leicester 2 Carlisle 2