Tidied Out or James the Less

A stonking weekend in Oswestry has illustrated most clearly the pleasure-pain principle. Or - as Laurence Fishburne said in the dreadful remake of Assault On Precinct 13 which was shown on TV last night - the Greeks called it Eros and Thanatos.

I forgot about my worries for a while and just plain old enjoyed myself. Whether to do with the moon or other pagan attributes associated with this time of year (admittedly, it is just a little early) rather than of the month, a remarkably upbeat atmosphere was evident in the sleepy little market town, with a free 'festival' (a few fairground rides and a stage, but I'm not complaining) on Friday night, and much carousing till late into the night most nights. Even the winter weather did not seem to dampen anyone's ardour, and I laughed a good deal. It was, in short, tidy.



I will confess to no more or less than some of our elected leaders (past and present) when I say that I may have tried some illegal (though, as we know, this definition is a fluid one, in both a temporal and geographical sense) substances in the past, and I was shocked to find, whilst out on a country ramble, a viable crop of psilocybin flourishing atop Hen Dinas' venerable crown. Whether I picked any must remain open to conjecture, as must the burning question of ingestion - in that will I be able to? Notwithstanding the practical difficulties of a decent 5 hour window, there is also the terror of gazing into my now matured (I use the word advisedly, let me assure you) psyche with its attendant baggage of responsibility and paranoia.

But for now, it's back to reality. I have already crashed and will soon start to burn, faced as I am with the ongoing quest for avoiding switching on the TV, and desperately trying to get motivated to do something other than play Super Mario Brothers on the DS.

Bless me

I always try to resist the zeitgeist. I mean, what could I possibly add to the multitude of voices screaming about this shit or that shit? How will my voice ever be heard amid all that scramble? So I am deliberately contrary, most of the time. But just occasionally, events happen which make you contribute to the brouhaha, and so it was on this particular spring night.



As per, the Arsenal (fuck the Rags, btw, come on you Barca!) got in the way of my journey home and made the commute extra-specially hellish. Needless to say, the day I had had at work was absolutely tremendous, and really set me up for being squashed onto a jam-packed tube train with a load of sweaty Gooners and my laptop bag at half past five of an evening. I tweeted earlier about the plane trees, and their seedy residue which is the bane of our lives here in Central London. This year it seems more extensive than ever, filling the air with dense clumps of green seed pods, which catch in your hair, drop into your beer and turn into a staining dust on your clothes if you try and wipe them off. Eating lunch in the park is a no-no, unless you like your sandwich to be liberally sprinkled with plane tree seeds. Which I don't.


So today, amidst the Arsers, I squeezed on to the tube and tried my best not to get too close to anyone else whilst shuffling my bag between my feet, and ducking my head to avoid the closing doors. However, no sooner had the train moved off than I began to feel a tingling in my nostril. A tingling which was not to be lightly cast aside, unless I had endured the tough regime of a Horse Guard on full feather-under-the-nose tickling fatigue. My hands were occupied, so I followed the current DoH guidance and launched my sneeze into the crook of my elbow. This was ineffective against its unexpected force and some aerosol droplets ricocheted off and into the limited ether surrounding me. I could tell by the flinch of a woman standing next to me that there had been some impact of my bodily fluids where they were not wanted, a fact given extra credence by her pathetic attempts to edge away from me even though there was nowhere for her to go. I hastily, but too late, pulled a tissue from my pocket and swiped at the silvery line above my top lip.

It got worse though, and (wrenching my eyes away from the dark smear of snot spreading in the crook of my elbow) as we arrived at the next station and I noticed her hurriedly raise a finger to her cheek, performing a discreet wipe-away motion of her own. I realised then with my own sense of horror that I had emitted into her face! Albeit accidentally.

In a very English way, she tried to pretend that nothing had happened before scurrying into the newly vacated space in front of her, as far as possible away from me, the potential pandemic carrier.

Currant Bun

With grim determination, I pushed on to Southend yesterday despite the none-too-promising weather in the morning. Based on the chill wind I just struggled through, I'm convinced that I made the right decision. There were patches of warm sun amid the West Ham beer guzzlers at Adventure Island, a regrettable fish and chips restaurant visit, and a small fortune spent on cheap tat and video games.

It is, however, reassuring that the video arcade at the Treasure Chest has a 2p change machine, so the ultimate marketing hasn't quite saturated the place yet. It was £22 per child for a blue bracelet, allowing access to all rides in the park as many times as you like. The hanky of beach leading down to the endless mud flats of the estuary, combined with the impact of the credit crunch on the town centre shopping 'experience' means that there really are very few other things to do in Southend without resorting to the lager. But in general, it's enough.



As I stood waiting for the kids to emerge from yet another ride, destinies were being made in the football world. I already knew of course about our win over the hateful Allardyce and his crew, that Fulham had depressingly (or was it?) capitulated to the Rags, and that Spurs had triumphed over an unlucky set of Boing Boings.

Hatton had been shat on, and the Scousers and Newcastle were going through the motions as I was talking to the Squeaky Voiced Teen, and runes were cast in the Championship. As I was trundling through the surprisingly beautiful Essex countryside, Sunderland were continuing to self-destruct, offering Mr Shearer an unlikely (Lads) lifeline, and the bloody Toffees (no disrespect to the diligent David Moyes, or the important Evertonians in my life, but I simply can't get involved with them - sorry!) were keeping up their tedious charge. I forgot to take my camera, and even my mobile phone battery was dead by the time I reached the beach, so I only have the unreliable images in my head to tide me over now.

Baggies

My new (acting) job title is WBM. I'm not very good at acting, but that's a bit beside the point. I attended a meeting of all WBMs in West Brom today. WBMs at WBA, you might say. And it was a dreadful journey, getting there and back again, though the bit in the middle wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be. In fact, the sandwiches were also all right. I do have to say that the bit I saw of West Brom was, er, not very interesting. Funnily enough, I am rooting for the Baggies to stay up, at the expense of Boro, Blackburn and Bolton. But that ain't gonna happen.

I boarded an early train from Euston in preference to staying overnight yesterday, but it instantly felt wrong. There was a sepulchral air in the carriage, and there were so many reserved places that I was forced to plonk down on one of those side-by-side seats next to a Japanese businessman who was fiddling with his ThinkBook. I felt immediately cramped and uptight. To my rear was another Japanese businessman - afforded the luxury of a table and furiously whacking away at an Excel spreadsheet. In front of me was a youngish woman reading one of those paperbacks about shopping while shoving a creamy baguette into her gob. Nobody loved me and I yearned for the good old SEO days of spacious seats, free breakfasts and carefree living. Those times are long gone, I have to accept that, but it doesn't make it any easier to come to terms with the fact that my all-too brief time in the sun is drawing to an end.

Coming home was even worse. Not only was the damned thing packed, with the usual catch-in-the-back-of-the-throat stench from the toilets in the vestibule (good word, I have to say) and some work obsessed drone sitting next to me, but also the elaborate manoeuvers I carried out to end up on the train on my own for a sneaky g&t came to nought because there was no fucking bar on board!

Holy shite, and they give that twat Branson a frigging knighthood? Get to fuck.

On the move

Bit of a Plinky style post today, sorry to say. The inevitability of the result against sodding Chelsea has put me in a bubblegum frame of mind.

I'm travelling again this week. Only to York, but for the last time in this particular incarnation of what I laughably call my career. Scandalously (and a little underwhelmingly, I should add) I am entitled to go 1st Class when I travel on business, and I do find that my enjoyment of the journey is not particularly enhanced by the privilege, especially on this National Express route (there is some appeal to the free Linda McCartney's, egg, hash brown and spinach [!] on Dicky Branson's line up to Crewe though, I must admit) where the only 'plus' point is a copy of the Times and all the coffee you can drink.



I'm no Palin (Michael) but I do look back fondly to the time when I was at Poly and used to regularly schlep across the Pennines to Manc land in order to escape from the terrible wastes of Sunderland. There was once the carcass of a cow laid out in ceremonial fashion across the tracks somewhere near Huddersfield, and we were delayed for ages while they cleared it. I also remember dropping my wallet onto the tracks in the dead of night at Dewsbury, and the guard shining his torch down and leaping down to rescue it for me. Would that happen now, or would the health & safety considerations prevent him?

My most memorable train journey was over the Pyrennees to Spain, many years ago. We had been travelling for some time with very little money and as we chugged south out of France, I hunkered down in the seat as best I could for a couple of hours' kip. I awoke with the dawn and a view of the mountains wreathed in crystal clear sunshine. I think we got off at Irun and were overjoyed to find the buffet open, though it seemed to me as if it was 4am. I wonder what kind of welcome you'd get at border town in the UK at such an ungodly hour, but there we were served steaming hot coffee and fresh croissants, and sat in the station taking in the wonderful views and breathing in the air of Spain. Sure beats jumping on an Easy Jet from Luton.

Over to the weather now...

Off to Exeter in the week to visit the Met Office HQ. Fascinating, captain. I was shown around the 24/7 Weather Desk, where the forecasting is done, and given a brief on how it's all put together. Needless to say, there's quite a lot to it. My mind kept flashing back to O Level Environmental Science and the wonderful geekery of weather monitoring stations and Stevenson Screens as I watched the multiple monitors displaying graphical representations of forecast models and plotting radar scans of rainfall. I was told that terabytes of data are received at the HQ from satellites every hour, and observations are recorded at 700 (I think, but it could have been 70) different levels in the atmosphere.

But best of all was a quick look at the supercomputers in the basement. These monsters (of which there are only two of equivalent type in Europe, they said) are responsible for the site consuming as much electricity as half of the city of Exeter. We were told that we couldn't enter the room for the risk that we would contaminate the delicate innards of the beast. They were in the process of upgrading their second SX-6 to an SX-8, and so we were amused when a workman strolled out of the room with brick dust all over his jeans and a lump hammer in his hand. As the door opened, that familiar, slightly high-pitched rushing sound of a computer room (though this one was somewhat larger than those I have been used to) emerged and we were looking at potentially 65TFLOPS. Fantastic!

Back at the Weather Desk, we were told that a forecast takes 64 minutes to be completed, and by the time it reaches the Chief Forecaster's desk it may already be 2 hours old, so he has to use his knowledge and experience to run the model forward and try to iron out any inconsistencies he perceives in the data. Once set, there are conference calls with various parties (including the likes of Helen Willetts) to ensure that the message of the forecast remains consistent. All in all, a truly excellent day.

Exeter seems nice enough, but I'm increasingly depressed by the similarity within our towns and cities. Everywhere you go, the same old shops, the seemingly endless parades of Caffe Neros and Lushs and Ann Summerss. There's a lovely cathedral, and the city is in a great setting, but it actually feels quite soulless. Maybe I'm not giving it enough of a chance.

Chuffing me off

I feel a little guilty about the Sylvia Plath reference in the title, and wish to state that it is not my intention to belittle either the Holocaust or that fine but troubled writer's experiences by using it to refer to the rather more mundane subject on which I'm about to babble. I do remember once, in those Bright College Days, discussing Daddy in a seminar. There was a German girl in the class and the lecturer seemed to have no qualms about asking her what she thought of the Nazi references in the poem. She was rather uncomfortable, as were we, when he asked her about the human skin lampshades and all that stuff. Rather unfairly, I thought, he broadened the discussion to take in the whole post-War German angst thing. She didn't really respond, and neither did anyone else - mostly because the majority of people just wanted to get through the hour and... do nothing, I suppose.

It's something that's always puzzled me, I must say, the lack of participation in seminars when I was at college. I've never really been the most confident person in a group of people, but I would usually say something, however asinine, just to break the silence. 90% of people in the room did not, however, utter word one. Ever. Three years of degree study would pass without any participation whatsoever from them. Odd really.

Anyway, I'm off to the land of Oz on Friday, taking the new Wrexham & Shropshire train from Marylebone. I'm told it's a 'lovely train' and does not require any changes at Birmingham, Wolverhampton, or anywhere else. We shall see if it will be a tidy experience.

Dr Rance

A good deal of train travel over the past and coming days. What joy. A pleasant long weekend in Shropshire is at an end, with a trip to York tomorrow and a long haul up to Shropshire again next week.

At the risk of offending some of the gentler flowers among my readership, I'm afraid I must raise an issue with customer service today on the 13.30 Birmingham New Street to London Euston. The connecting train we were on only arrived 5 minutes before and, New Street being what it is, there was an element of panic about reaching the platform in time. No need, as the service had not yet pulled in, but the trials and tribulations were not over so easily.

We were in Coach C. Not bad, directly adjacent to the 'shop' and only a carriage away from the hallowed First Class, but our ingress was blocked by a yellow plastic crate toting drone who was replenishing the stock of overpriced sandwiches, and - needless to say - making a meal (let's say a banquet) of it. As I approached, pack-horse like, he waved me away wordlessly, so I shepherded the kids towards the throng who were pushing and shoving through the adjacent door, their own passage blocked by yellow crate boy, thus causing a slightly flustered bottleneck in the piss-stinking vestibule leading to Coach C.

As politely as I could, I pushed myself forward amid the whistles and mewling kids, only to hear a call from the platform behind me. I turned and peered over the top of my rucksack to see a greying, balding man gesticulating at me.

"If you don't move forward," he whined, "The train can't move!"

There was no way for me to move forward, blocked as I was by the tide of humanity awaiting the decant of the BLTs and Aberdeen Angus and Davidstow cheddar burgers. Indignantly and loudly, I told said oleaginous Virgin employee exactly what the situation was, but just as I spoke, the sandwich loading operation was completed, the delivery man alighted, and the sweating hordes started to move forward into the Nirvana of airline seating, free wi-fi and endless announcements.

And here's the cherry on the icing on the cake.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said loudly enough for all to hear, "He's here, on the platform!" At that moment, I have to say, I hated the little bastard. Can he justify speaking to a 'customer' in such a way? The kids were with me, so I bit my tongue, but, by Christ, I wanted to tear him off a strip.

Later, in his capacity as train manager, he came to validate our tickets. It so happened that we had managed to lose one of the kids' ones, but he let it go - though he did make a show of demanding to see the Family Railcard, which I produced with a flourish, while mentally noting the name on his Virgin Trains ID badge. That really did it. You may not believe me, but he was called Paul fucking Gascoigne.

Posh

I will say nothing about the glorious defeat of the RAGS. The fantastic double over the red scum will not be commented on here. I will make no reference to the way that we outplayed them in every area of the pitch. Nor will I speak of the lame attempts to excuse the defeat by the overpaid autocrats at the Sty. Suffice to say that we won.

I will instead speak of my trip to erstwhile Barry Fry country today. A city which appears to be defined by its pointlessness. Just another collection of Cardfairs and Halifaxes; bus stations and roundabouts; Wetherspoons and Costa Coffees. The highlight of the day was the astounding obnoxiousness of the woman who (ultimately) sat opposite me on the 9.00 ex-Kings Cross. I admit that I shared her revulsion toward the shaven-headed moron who was eating a McDonalds breakfast in the seat next to mine (clearly there had been no socialisation in his personal history, and besides, who could stomach those strange McMuffins - let alone dipping the "hash brown" into a plastic mini pot of ketchup - at such an early hour?) but I wouldn't have dreamed of expressing my feelings in such a cold way. For fuck's sake, we weren't even travelling First Class. Things only descended down the wooden hill to Wakefulshire after that.

It was (surprise surprise!) a very crowded train, and those happy few with seat reservations were poking their fingers towards stinking fast food breakfasts with gusto as I arrived at my seat. Though my ticket clearly displayed 'A' for aisle seat, aforesaid McD muncher was already firmly ensconced, liberally spraying his Metro with TM ketchup, and I thought it churlish to press my point as I shoehorned myself into the window berth. It was to be, after all, a journey of only 45 minutes. But - ah, how long can 45 minutes seem as marked by the tyrannical hand of the ticking clock? At long last, following the National Express Train Manager announcements, the loco began its gradual climb out of the station. Nasty Cow - who looked a little like Dame Shirley Porter - flicked her eyes around, and, seeing no takers for the supposedly reserved (KX-Berwick-Upon-Tweed) seat next to her, scooted over to deposit herself opposite me. Buried in my Guardian, I heard her say:

"Excuse me..." (in none too friendly terms) "Can you move this?" She gestured dismissively toward my bag, perched on the table between us. Ketchup Boy was by now slurping unattractively at his McDonald's coffee, so I forced the bag down between my legs with a scowl before distractedly returning to my George Monbiot. It was 9.12.

By 9.21 NC was making a point of unfairly encroaching on my foot space (in between which my bag had come to rest) in a manner which could only be described as aggressive, whilst at the same time spreading the celebrity splattered pages of her Daily Telegraph across the table. She then took a call in the most eccentric way, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece but speaking at sufficient volume for everyone to hear. God, this country fucks me off.

First Class Part 2

PROLOGUE





So, spent several minutes attempting to place an AVI file into yesterday's post - you know, "262Kb of 20MB uploaded" etc, etc. Finding the file was in itself no mean feat as AVI files (my old camera used to save video in MPEG format, sob) have a kind of semi-existence on a Mac anyway, but find it I did and then lost myself in reveries of dial-up data transfer while I made some crumpets, went to the toilet and kept an eye on the blue bar crawling across the bottom of the screen. I was slightly perturbed by the ! in a triangle and the message saying "Unable to contact Blogger.com. Please check your connection by clicking here." but I didn't want to move away from the page in case I lost that which had already passed through the intarpipes, so I persevered to the end.


"20MB of 20MB uploaded" it said at last. But the blue bar kept pulsing away. How long is 5 seconds in the broadband age? It is an eternity, that's how long. Nothing happened, and the window saying "Your video will be displayed here" was nothing more than an object in Powerpoint, complete with grab handles at the corners. I deleted it.

On with the show

After The Only One I Know, Roll With It came on and the ground was starting to fill up, with the exception of the upper tier of the away section. (I thought they were supposed to be BIG footy fans?) Kept my eye out for the eye-catchers, watched Dunney and Micah warming up, Petrov pinging it about and the almighty Elano stretching. I was sitting in the family stand, but had no fear of repeating some of my previous foul mouthed rants during the reign of Keegan as I had a good feeling about us.

Boro's lineup wasn't exactly the most intimidating either. Who the fuck is Craddock? And I've just noticed that the BBC report on the match doesn't mention Tuncay in the Boro lineup. He was their most annoying, and most effective player. Very strange.

Steve Bennett was a total wanker and let 4 or 5 bad tackles by Boro go unpunished. They couldn't live with us in the first half and either shat themselves (our first goal a classic example) or hacked our players down every time we broke forward. We looked a bit shaky (Joe Hart) and a little lacking in energy (Micah) but Boro rarely threatened. And they don't have an Elano in their side like we do. His first was an absolute belter and the ground rocked when it flew in.

Half time and no balti pies left, so I unwisely shovelled the scalding grey mush of a cheese & onion in before going back up. Vile.

Second half we were at the City end, and not expecting to see much action. I had a perfect view of Elano's brilliantly taken free kick sailing in though and proceeded to do the arms aloft Blue Moon.



Three nil and that was Boro fucked, despite Tuncay's badgering and moaning. Woodgate was solid in defence for them and I feel we would have had more if he hadn't have been playing. He got booked though. Ha! City fell asleep at the end, with large numbers of the fans having already left, and Hutchison got a consolation back for the Teesiders, but on the whole it was a great day at the office. It says a lot for how far we've come that I heard people saying they were disappointed we hadn't kept a clean sheet, and that we hadn't played as well as we did against Newcastle. Last season we would have killed for a home performance like that.

We wound our way back through the post-apocalyptic surroundings to the car and there was the little ginger girl, this time on a bike, as we approached. She wasn't on the ball like City but, and didn't approach us for the promised quid. "If she ain't gonna ask," said our Manc driver, "Then I certainly am not going to fork out. Let's go!" and we fought our way through the horrendous traffic back to Piccadilly.

It was to be a long journey, but if I had known quite how long, I wouldn't have been anything like as relaxed as I took my seat in First Class and proceeded to read my King of The Kippax, waiting for the optimum moment to trek down to the buffet (or 'shop' as they insist on calling it these days) for a g&t and a packet of Big Eat cheese & onion. The carriages down in steerage were very crowded, and even First Class was almost full by the time we reached Birmingham New Street. I gave up any hope of getting some kip when someone sat in the seat opposite me, but my troubles were just beginning.

At Birmingham International, another large crowd - off the planes - got on, most notably a Paul O'Grady clone (when I say clone, I mean lookalike, 'mk?) who sat on the floor of the vestibule and began to yell into his mobile. Every time the doors opened, I would catch a snippet of what he was saying ("Look at me, just got off a first class flight, and I'm sitting in a fuckin' corridor!") and he seemed to be more or less repeating the same story.

Ten minutes out of B'ham International, the train ground to a halt and our guard informed us that there had been signal problems, that there were four trains ahead of us and that there would be some delays. Was he ever right! Two sodding hours we were stuck, inching forward every 15 minutes. Paul O'Grady kept telling different people his story:

"Table for two please."

"The entry charge is 6 Euros," (in a very good Dutch accent) "You go around the side, and we will refund the money, but you must take off your clothes... It was a fucking sex party! Jesus Christ! Table for two please. Take off your clothes! Can you believe it?" This went on for the entire rest of the journey - 4 hours, ladies and gentlemen, 4 HOURS! - in various forms and to various people. I must admit to finding it amusing the first couple of times - he seemed like a comedian - but he could have flown from Amsterdam without the help of an aeroplane and seemed unaware (unless he was extremely narcissistic and thought that we all wanted to hear his story again and again and again) that he was repeating himself.

After about an hour, I could smell cigarette smoke drifting in from the vestibule. Paul was smoking, and he had little to fear from the guard (or 'Train Manager' as they insist on calling them) because the guy was locked in his cupboard in fear of his life. One elderly man I passed at one point could be heard calling the 'Train Manager' a 'loser' in a loud voice, because he had failed to make any announcements for the almost two hours of us being stationary. I could not but agree. We arrived in London at around midnight, after 6 hours on the train, and Virgin Trains had laid on taxis for those travelling on to other destinations. I overheard Paul say that he was planning a trip to Southend-on-Sea.

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First Class Part 1

As promised, an oopdate on my adventures oop North over the weekend.

First thoughts as I arrived were that there was nothing familiar about the place. It's been 10 years since I've visited, it's true, and that was only a flying visit for a wedding, but even so I used to live and work in Manchester. For quite a few years as well. But it just felt as if it was somewhere I had never been before.

My admirable guides collected me by car and we drove from Piccadilly to leafy Didsbury. Only the Mancunian Way and the old UMIST (chief among the aforesaid guides told me that UMIST no longer exists, but has been subsumed by the gargantuan University of Manchester, home to 400,000 students) building rang any bells for me. Apart from that, only the place names were familiar, but not the way the place looked. Wilmslow Road, Fallowfield, Burnage (home of the Gallagher brothers) and Hulme. I saw a 47 bus, one which I used on a daily basis, and that brought a tinge of nostalgia.

Saturday night, out in Didsbury. Crowded is the word. The first pub we hit was the D&P - Dog & Partridge, just after the France All Blacks game had kicked off. It was heaving, and reminded me of the halcyon days of pub-going, when you would stand shoulder to shoulder with loudly talking blokes and tuck your elbows in to hold and drink your pint. Monkey nut shells were strewn all over the floor. The only difference from those distant times was the smoke-free atmosphere. Thank you NuLab for that one. I very much enjoy a good bitter when I get out of London, where I drink only Fosters, so a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor Landlord went down very nicely indeed. Unfortunately the many fine Lancs ladies in the pub did not. Fnarr.

Following that we moved on to the Nelson, just across the road for a Buxton or twain. Karaoke on one side, rugger on the other, but considerably less crowded than the D&P. Watched the end of the game in there, and was oddly pleased for the French, mainly because I never thought they could do it. By this time, our laughter was getting a bit more strident and the Nelson was filling up, so we headed for the Station, which was as packed, if not more so, as the D&P. 80s disco, very narrow space in front of the bar and toilets right at the back, past the DJ stand. Good though. Marston's Pedigree was the beverage of choice.

Then home for sweet dreams of the sporting day ahead.

As my train was pulling into Piccadilly on the Saturday, a Middlesbrough train was pulling out. I took that to be a good omen, being as I am, highly superstitious when it comes to football. It was a bit difficult to see inside, but I'm sure the occupants resembled those on the bus in the Woody Allen film - "I prefer your earlier, funny films" later ripped off by the crisps (?) ad.



We drove through Manchester towards 'Sportcity' and the Commonwealth Games spread in Beswick, heading for the B of the Bang and into a quite frightening and very run down housing estate, arriving just before 2 o'clock, to be greeted by a little girl with ginger hair who made my day by asking for a quid to look after the car. Our driver, who was local and wise, handled it well. "Tell you what, if it's still 'ere when we get back we'll talk, all right?" The girl nodded and stumped off. Through back alleys, past boarded up shops and young scallies carrying bits of ripped fence we made our way to the ground. It was a magnificent sight, rising out of the wasteland around, and the sound of the faithful cheering, even almost an hour before kick-off gave me a little frisson of pleasure.








Bought an obligatory KOTK on the way in, and I'm trying to write this in a homage style to one of the City history pieces you see in there.



Once in, the impression was better than Wembley, where I saw the England Brazil match back in June. I'm not a big fan of this trend for branded mega stadia complete with shopping malls and oyster bars, though I'm not misty-eyed about squeezing into some torture chair at Selhurst Park either. Eastlands seems to have got the balance right. You do get a 'special' feeling, but you can also buy a chicken balti pie and a pint of lager - priced at £2.40 and £3.00 respectively from the bars situated at each block.


Up the steps... and there it is. The hallowed turf. Mecca. The Only One I Know was on the PA as I reached the top step.

To be continued... due to a total fucking pain in the arse with uploading a frigging video.

Look after yer car mistoh?

Unbridled joy as my first visit to the cathedral of Eastlands went off like a dream. More will follow, including pictures, but I wanted to pay tribute to Elano and the boys now, while the euphoria is undampened (even by the 6 hour train journey back home - 2 hours stationary between Coventry and Birmingham International)

Come on City! Come on City! Come on City!