It’s Good To Catch Up

Early Sunday morning, up before I would normally be for a working day. There shouldn’t be any need for this really. Granted, the clocks went back an hour last night, so it’s not as bad as it could have been. And the reason for this early morning madness? The NFL. Despite not renewing my season ticket for the London games this year, I’ve got the chance to see the final one of the three games this year.

 

The Jaguars (Jaagwaars as the Americans would call them) against the Eagles. Last season’s Superbowl winners against the AFC conference runners up. It’s not going quite as well for either team this season. Me ending up with a ticket came from an unusual and unexpected source.

 

I’d sent out a hopeful message to request if anyone still had copies of e-mails I’d sent out eleven or twelve years ago. I’m on a drive to try and collate all my old writing, and this was a set that I couldn’t find anywhere. It had gone out to people I thought would have been on my old mailing list to receive random rubbish. Surprisingly a couple of people did still have copies of some of them. Not only that but one of my housemates from when I lived in Manchester had a spare ticket for the game. Not bad from someone I hadn’t seen in ten years or so.

 

For a change Thamestink were on time, though to be fair even they would be hard pushed to be late when the train was coming from a depot in sight of the platform. It wasn’t until I got to London Bridge that the issues started. The Jubilee line had ground to a halt because of signalling issues, and there were no trains. This meant no direct route to Wembley. A mile long (or so it seems) walk through the labyrinth of tunnels at London Bridge to get to the Northern line. A quick change at Moorgate was the plan; pick up the Metropolitan line instead. Well, it was quicker than not moving, a ten minute wait, and I managed to get a seat. Something that three stops later wouldn’t have been a possibility due to it turning into a sardine can.

 

My usual game of team spotting had started early. Bears fan getting tickets at Three Bridges station, closely followed by the damn Cowboys and the Jaguars on the platform. Raiders, Eagles and Packers were next at London Bridge. Vikings, Broncos, Giants, Falcons, Redskins and Dolphins on the tube. It was always a good guessing game of who would be the last team to be spotted at these games.

 

Despite the fact the game in nominally a home game for the Jaguars, and that there is a big push on supporting them in and around London, it was clear from the outset that this was going to be a more Eagles-centric crowd. The Eagles jerseys may well have been outgunning the Jaguars, but in the battle of paper coffee cups spilling brown liquid everywhere it was a much closer outcome. It looked like Costa was ahead of Starbucks, but it was close.

 

Not only that but the weather wasn’t great, a slow steady rain had accompanied my journey up to London, somewhat typical I though after the two previous games had been played in bright sunshine. It would have to be raining when I’d arranged to meet up for drinks at the Green Man at the top of that ridiculous hill. It was a good job that drips don’t get wet, they just get bigger. Although if I got much bigger I really am going to need my own post code. I also think the sunglasses may have been a tad optimistic. Yet as the arch of Wembley stadium comes into view, so does the sun, forcing its way out from behind the clouds. It may be OK after all.

 

At Wembley Park, it was back into team spotting mode. Seahawks, Lions, Browns, Chiefs, Buccaneers, Texans, Patriots and Steelers were all there. The Cardinals were seen hanging out of a window of a passing car on Empire way, shouting at random passers-by. I saw a Titans fan coming down the hill on the way up to the Green Man.

 

Which was closed. To me and other members of the general public as the Green Legion had hired the whole place out. FFS, back down the god damn hill again and through the outlet mall, where Rams, Chargers, Jets, Colts, Bengals and Panthers were spotted.

 

In the stadium surround waiting for Mark to turn up, Ravens and Saints appeared, which meant that the Bills were the last team spotted. Losers. Mark was later than advertised, but to be fair he has more family responsibilities than me. Well, that and the fact he was never great at being on time.

 

Conversation started straight away, there was a lot to fill in on both sides, but it was like picking up where we had left off, even if that was ten years ago. We went to the tailgate, a first for me, despite all the previous games I had gone to. It was crowded and felt forced, and wasn’t really worth the effort, but a lesser spotted Bills fan was in there, so the set was complete.

 

We met up with Mark’s friends who had got us the tickets in the first place. They had got some on the top tier originally, then bought some more to come with additional friends from Florida lower down, so had some going spare. We had time for a quick drink before the game before it was time to head in for the game. Clearing security and grabbing a drink made it we made it to our seats just in time for the kick off, having missed all the build-up and anthems.

 

It was a decent enough game. Defences on top at first, before some more expansive play in the second half. The Eagles got a lead and although there was only one score in it, they held out. Mark was happy, as a fully-fledged Eagles fan now after living in Philadelphia for eighteen months, it was a good result for him.

 

His friends from the states had got an apartment behind Brent Civic Centre for the weekend. So Mark and I picked up some beers and unhealthy snacks and headed over there to watch more NFL and chat. With game pass showing the Bears game on one laptop, accompanied by very loud shouting from the Bears fan in the room, and Redzone on another laptop, action from the early games surrounded chatting and drinking.

 

But, having to get home meant Mark and I headed off. As we passed Wembley, the arch was lit up in blue and white light, and the Leicester City badge filled up the various screens on the outside of the stadium. A tribute to the City owner who had tragically died in a helicopter crash following their game against West Ham the evening before.

 

At Wembley Park we headed off in different directions, vowing not to leave it another ten years before meeting up again.

 

 

Hope, Fail, Sigh, Repeat

Another season is underway. The promise of it was exhilarating. The reality is somewhat less enthralling. I’ve been an American Football fan since the 1980’s. For all of that time I’ve been a San Francisco 49ers fan. For the first fifteen years it was wonderful. Countless division titles, five Superbowl championships, and other NFC title games.

Then it started to drop off, and by the time the noughties were fully in swing the number of wins per season was nearer to nought than they were to ten. We had three good seasons in the early tens, winning a couple of division titles and missing out on a sixth Superbowl win by less than five yards. Then the wheels fell off again. But for the Cleveland Browns we would have been the worst team in the NFL.

After a disastrous start to last season we ended up winning six of the last seven games of the season. A reasonable draft and free agency left us hopeful of a good season. More wins than losses for a change, and a possible playoff berth.

Five games in and that all looks like a distant memory. If we didn’t laugh about the way we were playing we would cry. And they would be bitter tears. A loss against the Vikings could be expected; they reached the NFC Championship game last season and had strengthened. We beat the Lions, despite our best efforts to contrive a defeat from the jaws of victory. Then came game three, and whilst chasing the game came disaster. Our QB went down with an injury on a play he shouldn’t have made. It turned out to be a season ending ACL injury and you could feel the deflation.

Game four saw us throw away chances to beat a quite poor Chargers outfit, and yet we could still find ways to go downhill from there. We were playing the winless Cardinals last night. And as only we can manage, after a good touchdown drive to start the game things went downhill from there. We missed the extra point. We gave the freedom of the field to a wide receiver who was in a different post code to the cover. Fumbles, an interception, an injury to our primary running back, dumb ass penalties. It was all here.

We got a touchdown to give us hope, only for us to attempt the worse ever two point conversion try I’ve ever seen. Then we let the Cards score straight away again and it was all over. Robbie Gould missed a field goal, his first miss in 39 attempts going back to Halloween last year. We got another touchdown, but another crap attempt at a two point conversion meant we needed two onside kick recoveries and scores in just over a minute. No one will be surprised to learn that didn’t happen.

We’ve seen this all before. There are ongoing themes, a lot of which can be throwing fingers in the direction of the coaching staff. Silly penalties at stupid times – yep seen that a lot recently. Fumbles, more of them than at a drunken Christmas party, which with interceptions means we rack up more turnovers than an episode of the Bake-Off. A complete inability to tackle, especially in the open field, we’ve had less effective tackles than there are on show at a eunuchs’ convention. And finally a secondary who appear to be wearing signs that say “throw the ball over here for a completely open receiver.”

The pre-season optimism has gone. All that is left is gallows humour and a sense of we’ve been here before.

I still watch, because that’s what fans do. It may be out of morbid curiosity, I may not like what I see. I may swear a lot. I may make flippant, sarcastic, or cynical remarks and poke fun at my team. It’s what I do to stop going mental. It prevents the inevitable eye rolling from continuing out of my head, down my body and off down the street.

I took five minutes away from the game last night to rewrite Fatboy Slim’s “Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” to become “Run, Sack, Punt, Repeat”, along with new words for all of the song. Then I rewrote part of it again when I came back to find that Brieda had gone off injured.

As I look at the wreckage of another season, with seemingly little hope for improvement on the horizon I may rewrite it again, but the punchline will be different.

HOPE, FAIL, SIGH, REPEAT.

 

But for the time being, here’s what I originally rewrote last night

So there was this kicker who was like kicking off
He didn’t know what he was doing
But he kicked far man
Like, really far man
Ball in the air
And then this returner ran in
You know, not just ran
Like a long run
Like a really, like you know
Dislike
You know what happens next
Like run and score
They were tackling
We weren’t tackling
They were scoring
And I don’t know whether anyone else noticed it
But all that was happening was
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Suddenly I think we’re going to score
Suddenly I think we’re going to win
But we don’t
I’m just dreaming
I’m just dreaming
I’m just dreaming
I’m just sleeping
I’m just hoping
I’m just praying
And then
Another
Injury
God damn
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat
Run, sack, punt, repeat

Back to mid table obscurity

It’s not been a bad few seasons as a Spurs fan. Not compared with the – on the whole – mediocracy that has been the case for nigh on forty years. It’s what, as a realistic supporter I’ve come to expect. Three top three finishes is more than they’ve had in the last forty years put together.

 

But I’m even more worried as this season approaches than I was last year. Spurs far exceeded expectations last season. I though playing at Wembley would be a millstone around their necks, that they would finish seventh, go out of all the cups in the first game played, and go out of the Champions’ League at the group stage, even before the draw was made. Finishing third was a surprise, getting out of the group stage was a bonus, and another losing FA Cup semi-final was more than expected. The only one I got right was the exit in the Carabao Cup in the first game vs West Ham, throwing away a two goal lead to lose 3-2. Wembley wasn’t as bad as it could have been, we lost the same amount of games there as we did in our proper designated away games.

 

However I see no reason for optimism for the forthcoming season. There are five reasons for this.

  1. The World Cup. Nine of what would be our starting eleven started World Cup games last weekend. There is no way that they will be ready to play at the start of the season, mentally or physically. A three week holiday before a single week of pre-season isn’t enough, especially for players who were looking jaded before lengthy World Cup runs.
  2. No transfers in. Unless they have been so far under the radar that no news agency has reported them. All I’ve seen are more lengthy contract extensions. Good for keeping important players at the club, but with all other clubs buying players, Spurs needed to have been buying players already this summer. Leaving it until the last minute of the English transfer window is madness. Which is linked to…
  3. Players leaving. Two of the first team seem destined to leave no matter what. There are no replacements, and with the transfer window for the rest of Europe not closing until well after the English one does, there is plenty of time for those payers to be picked off at will, with no chance to get replacements in as the window is closed for Spurs to get replacements.
  4. A New Stadium. Yes, it’s still called White Hart Lane, but it an entirely new build. Due to gross incompetence, we will also be playing out first home game of the season at Wembley, before eventually having a proper home game in the middle of September. Regardless of the team playing, it takes time to bed down in a new stadium. It doesn’t feel properly like home for a couple of years, and no one can be sure what the atmosphere would be like. Arsenal struggled to bed in themselves, but they had the advantage that their players had been winning trophies before they moved.
  5. Mentality. Spurs can’t get over that hump. It’s so long since they’ve won a trophy, it’s like an invisible wall in front of them. There is no doubting that the manager and the team have improved leaps and bounds in the last five years, but they’ve still won nothing, and when the pressure comes down, they always look lost. I don’t think Mauricio Pochettino can get them over that hump. Another semi-final loss, five minutes of madness against Juventus, things that could have been dealt with if there was a proven winning manager in charge. But there isn’t. Much as I may dislike him, Jose Mourhino would have won something with this Spurs squad.

 

So where do I think this leaves Spurs for the coming season? Struggling to finish sixth, and probably a distance behind the top five. The rest of last year’s top six have strengthened, other sides in the Premier League have spent money and won’t have European action to distract them. Unless there is some drastic action in the next couple of weeks, Spurs just won’t have a squad capable of playing in Europe and the Premier League. They will probably sacrifice the Carabao Cup and go out in the first game. If they are struggling by the new year, the FA Cup will go out of the window, and when they drop down to the Europa League after finishing third in their Champions’ League group, there won’t be much effort made to get through in that competition either. A run of games at the end of the season to get some points will see us scrape sixth, and then the exodus starts big time. Back to years of struggling, bouncing between sixth and twelfth.

 

And I’ll still be supporting, expecting the worse, but hoping, just for a change, that everything goes right.

World Cup Willies

The World Cup is over. It has not been as I expected it to be. I drew England in the work sweepstake. I moaned like fuck when I did so about a waste of money. There were certainly no high expectations. England had been talked down a lot. The last sixteen and then home beckoned. But they did better than I had thought they would. Getting through the group stage was easier than it had been for a while. The last sixteen game was tense. The last minute equaliser by Colombia had the hallmarks of a typical England performance – promise and then disappointment. Going to penalties my heart sank, we’d been here before, more times than I care to remember. But England won the penalty shoot-out, a first for a world cup tournament. Then they got to the semi-finals after a victory over Sweden.

 

And then came the avalanche of unhelpful, unrealistic, and unwarranted media hype. Getting carried away as usual. It was only Croatia. A game I expected us to lose, but I was definitely in the minority. I’d backed Croatia to win the World Cup before a ball was kicked in anger. They are technically superb, and the team and their fans seemed united more now than at any time in the previous ten years. They should have won the 2016 Euros, but fighting and flares from their fans during a group game put them off their stride. They threw away a two goal lead in the last ten minutes of the match and were never the same again in the tournament, losing to the eventual winners Portugal in a dull game that went to extra time.

 

England took the lead in the semi-final. A great free kick from Trippier after five minutes. Only eighty-five minutes to survive then. First half chances were squandered, and sure enough Croatia equalised in the second half, and then got a winner in extra time. England were out and the torrent of negativity started. The game had only just finished when the denigration started. They hadn’t played any good sides. Too one dimensional, No plan b, no creative midfielder. Too cocky.

 

The last one is blatantly a lie; I can’t remember any other England squad being so low key about their chances before a tournament. Good sides is debateable. We have previously lost and drawn games to the teams we played, or teams supposedly at a similar level. Before the tournament started a lot of people were saying we would lose these games, and then when England wins, the same people say we should beat those sides. Bleating on that they are below England in the FIFA rankings. Rankings that are so inept, that even FIFA recognise they are a load of shite and are about to change the whole way they are calculated.

 

As for the style of play? Yes a lot of that is true. It was true before England played a game, yet the level of vitriol after the fact is just stupendous. The squad and the style of play was a reason why England weren’t expected to get past the last sixteen (or even out of the group stage according to a lot of keyboard warriors), and yet after reaching a semi-final, it’s described as a disgrace England didn’t reach the final. Get real people. If someone had told me at the start of the tournament that England would reach the semi-finals and go out after extra time, after previously won a penalty shoot-out, and have the golden boot winner, I would have laughed them out of the room, whilst snatching their hand off at the same time.

 

Speaking of the golden boot, the slagging off of Harry Kane is beyond a joke. There was a problem. It was he wants to play every game there is, yet no one seems to sit him down and say “no, you shouldn’t play, you need a rest, and it is for your own good.” He wasn’t as sharp in games at the World Cup as he had been in January / February. Coming back from injury too soon in April caused that. Yet despite that he still scored six goals. Granted one was a complete fluke, and three were penalties. Everyone is claiming he shouldn’t have won the golden boot, it is tarnished. However if penalties are so easy, how did Ronaldo, Messi and Modric miss them during this World Cup? In fact without Kane’s goals, a possible defeat to Tunisia and then out of the group stage. A loss to Colombia in normal time. And for all his lack of sharpness in front of goal, his all round play is overlooked. The ability to hold the ball up, link up play and his passing range are ignored.

 

The other sadly predictable outcome of England going out in the semi-finals was it gave the fans of the big three horrible red teams the chance to slag Tottenham off as usual. The Arsenal banter page had a ‘Keep Calm and Blame Tottenham’ meme up on their Facebook page as the final whistle blew. And along with the Liverpool and Manchester United fans, they took to the message boards in their droves to blame everything bad about England on Tottenham (whilst also saying Belgium had the same problem as well). For a change though the Chelsea fans took a step back from that one.

The final of France vs Croatia was a surprise to most. The talent France had left at home suggested they should have been tournament favourites from the outset. They won, ruining my money winning chances in doing so, and in the end it was comfortable. They were helped by some strange refereeing decisions for their first two goals. But in the end, they had the tactics and the quality to overcome whatever was put in front of them. Something England could well do with learning from.

 

VAR was used for the first time at a World Cup. On the whole it was alright, but there isn’t enough clarity on when it is used, and it can take too long. In one game play was called back for a penalty, after the opposing side had gone down the pitch and had a shot on target at the other end. It only covers four specific situations; other situations are still on the referee only. Watching the relatively few games I did see, the inconsistency in the refereeing was frustrating. Even within the same game at times. Some of the officiating teams aren’t up to it. What does it matter if there are more than one officiating team from a country? It should be the best sets of officials regardless of where they are from.

 

The other thing was the lack of bookings for simulation. Only one throughout the whole tournament. A tournament that had the most extras from Platoon that any tournament had ever had. It is disappointing. There is supposed to be a crackdown on simulation, but it just isn’t happening, and some of the best players in the world are the worst for it. If it isn’t tackled properly it’s going to get worse. Even a blatant clumsy dive like Harry’s Maguire’s goes without punishment.

 

For a variety of reasons I saw a lot less games in this World Cup than I had at any since the eighties, only catching probably one in three up to the semi-finals. There were a lot of surprises, big names going out at every stage. Despite the media hyped potential issues there would be in Russia, there was a lack of trouble, and apart from the final trophy presentation, glorious weather. On the whole I think it was a good world cup.

 

There were downsides. British media getting carried away as usual. They never learn. English fans getting carried away with a quarter-final win, wrecking cars and invading an Ikea to jump on furniture. Many were quick to (rightly) criticize this, especially non-English fans. Yet after riots, looting, deaths and more in Paris and other parts of France as they celebrated winning the World Cup, there isn’t a single word of condemnation uttered by those fucking hypocrites.

 

Apparently it’s just part of the game when other countries win.

 

 

 

Random Musings From Being On Tour

They always say never go back. There can be many reasons for that. There are memories, some bad that bring up feelings long buried. Some are golden, having a glow all around them. Things will have changed. Buildings will have been demolished, and new ones will have sprung up in their place. Others will be abandoned and empty. Some will have been repurposed. Those special places of your memories aren’t that pub anymore, they are a restaurant, or a shop, or, as one particularly bad experience showed me, they turn your spiritual home into a damn Sainsbury’s café.

They also say that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Well going back to Leicester had both of these, and on a lot of occasions, both at the same time.

On arrival to the city, the carnage of the roads around the motorway junction and Fosse Park haven’t changed a bit. It’s still a lunatic free for all. Yet further down Narborough Road you get the noticeable changes. The Post House is now a Premier Inn. Jesters, the first nightclub I ever went to is a health centre. That’s the most immediately noticeable thing, the pubs have gone. There has been a vast cull. Outside of the city centre it appears that more than half have gone.

My old house, the only place I have ever owned, is still there. The window lintels still painted in that dark blue that I used to paint them more than twenty years ago. The house is double glazed now. The factory that used to be next door but one is gone, it’s now a three story block of flats instead. The view from the back of the house has changed as well. I used to be able to see the back of the old City ground, the Carling Stand as it used to be. Now I can see a few struts of the new ground. Most of the open land that used to separate the back of my house from the ground has been built on. The space has been filled by numerous multi story blocks of flats. A whole estate has popped up in between.

My grandparents’ house doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t seem as big. The corner shop is gone. Yet that old scruffiness of the few streets around it has stayed the same. They lead down to the river on two sides, and are hemmed in on a third by the old gas works. Nothing looks new here. Close by, the former national velodrome has gone. It is more houses. Unneeded now that newer, indoor locations in Manchester and London have been built for the Commonwealth and Olympic games respectively.

It’s strange to see the new City ground, a stone’s throw from where the old one was. Separated by the old car parks. A few new builds have appeared, but most of the old ground in boarded up wasteland. Though I bet to the residents of Burnmoor Street, it must look like a paradise. They actually have daylight to their rear windows instead of the back of the east stand blocking everything out.

We walk into town, going along Eastern Boulevard to Mill Lane and then through the main campus of De Montfort University. It’s all changed apart from the old admin block and the Hawthorn building, everything else is new. The Fletcher building and the old student union, and the James Went building, along with their paternosters have gone. Brand new buildings in place, and De Montfort University seem to own all of the Newarkes now.

I knew that the spire to St Mary de Castro had been taken down, but turning to look through and over Rupert’s Gate to see a low tower is still a bitter disappointment. Through the castle yard and out the other side to where the townhouses I always wanted to live in are still there. Still a pipedream. Roger Wyggston’s house is now a restaurant and bar, the costume museum is gone. The Guildhall still looks the same, inside as well as we find out a couple of days later, and the Cathedral sits next to it. Risen in importance since they found Richard III’s body and reinterred it here, but it pales into insignificance compared with the multiple grandiose Cathedral buildings we will visit later on the trip. There really is no comparison between a medieval parish church raised to cathedral status, and one built as such.

The Globe is still the same, and O’Neill’s is as I remember. We can’t get into Bruxelles to relive memories of the Dome, due to bladder man being in shorts and boat shoes. Tony and Chris haven’t changed much apart from hair colour. Friendships picked up again after such a break. Bouncing around pubs is good and we part after arranging to meet up to watch England on the Monday night.

A day walking the river and canal follows. They’ve let nature take over a lot. Trees are bigger, foliage is denser. Buildings have gone, and not all have been replaced. The council have finally realised what a historic city they have, and information boards and signs have sprung up all over the place. Still no explanation for the brick wall with the big hole that sits by West Bridge though.

Abbey Park is the same, but it seems smaller somehow, as if I have grown. In fact most of the walk from Raw Dykes to Watermead seems shorter now. New builds appear on Wolsey Island; only the chimney survives from the building that used to be there. The little wharf that we hired a mini barge for my twenty-first birthday is now trees and reeds. New ugly houses and flats stand back from the road. The National Space Centre is now here, next to the old Museum of Technology in the Abbey Pumping House.

And then the school is gone. Where Ellis stood, running down to the river, it is now meadows. It is the learning establishments that seem to have changed the most. De Montfort University is unrecognisable from the Leicester Polytechnic it was when I went to it. Ellis is gone completely, Rushey Mead and Soar Valley are completely rebuilt and re-sited, and sturdy, high metal fences protect them from casual passers-by. They no longer merge with the Rushey Fields. They are now their own enclaves. English Martyrs looks different up on its hill and Babington seems to have moved and expanded.

The church still remains on the corner of Peebles Way and Gleneagles Avenue. It has lost the ‘Of Good Counsel’ and is ‘Our Lady’ only now, but it looks exactly the same as it did for all the years I was an altar boy there, and as it did when I was married there.

The next day we do the New Walk, this seems shorter than my memory suggested as well. It is as if a section is missing, but there is no missing the monstrosities the council allowed in the post war years until the seventies. The market has shrunk and looks less vibrant, but Walker’s is still there, still doing amazing pies, and a proper crusty soft cob. Why can’t anywhere else in the country manage to make them like this?

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We leave Leicester via an indirect route, making our way around the city until we hit the A6 north, sticking to the old road, not the new bypass, so we can go through all the villages on the way up to Loughborough. Then past Kegworth and the data centre I used to work at for eighteen months. Eighteen months of a torturous minibus journey to commute there, only for me to pass my driving test two days after moving to an office back in Leicester that was a ten minute walk from my house.

Then it was on to Sheffield. A part of the journey I didn’t mention on social media. You never know who is watching and monitoring it. I spent a lot of time there fearful of a hand on the shoulder, or a shout of ‘oi you, Kev’ and a confrontation with the ex-wife’s family. I played snooker for the first time in years, and we did our first ever stay at an Air B’n’B. It wasn’t bad, but a weird sensation of sleeping in a stranger’s house.

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We carried on up to mums, over Snake Pass and a relaxing evening. Heysham village for dinner and a recharge before a day trip to Carlisle. It was nicer than I had expected. The castle was good, more complete than the typical English Heritage ruin. The Cathedral dwarfed Leicester’s, and there were plenty of nice buildings in the city, and the people were so friendly. The journey to and from Carlisle ran between the edge of the Lake District to the West and the Pennines to the east. It was a windy drive, but spectacular views, although the motorway is light on traffic, it’s a difficult drive.

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It’s funny how your eyes and mind play tricks on you, making you see things that aren’t there, because of connections they make. The toiletries in the hotel were all branded. A brand I hadn’t heard of before, Acca Kappa. Now if that doesn’t sound Greek, I don’t know what does. So when I looked at the name of the soap it seemed quite reasonable to me that the name of it would be Greek Mandarin. That triggered thoughts of indecipherable conversations. Not only would it be all Greek to me, but with an added layer of Chinese translation. Then I thought it must be a particular species of Mandarin, one that came from Greece, not that orange growing sprang to mind when thinking of Greece, even if they do have the climate for it. It was only the fifth or sixth time of reading the packet that I saw it was actually Green Mandarin. Was that a newbie studying Chinese for the first time? No, the smell of the soap was definitely orange. Of course, green oranges made as much sense as anything else that had popped into my mind. Not that any of that stopped me from going through the same thought processes when I looked at the box the next morning.

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It was a large bed with two long large fluffy pillows each. They seemed great at first, when they were being used to prop you up for lounging around watching the telly. Personally I think that between that lounging in the afternoon and going to bed at night someone had switched them. Trying to sleep on them was horrendous. They then acted as if they had turned into bean bags that had had seventy percent of the beans removed. Trying to find a comfortable position on them was nigh on impossible. On my side at the edge of the pillows meant all the stuffing disappeared and my head was flat on the bed with my head at a funny angle like some kind of deformed goblin. Lying on my back wasn’t an improvement. When my head hit the pillows it sank through and both ends curled over inwards and tried to suffocate me. After a while of frustrated tossing and turning, one of them ended up on the floor and the other got folded in half before I could finally get to sleep.

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How to cause chaos in one easy motion? It’s a piece of cake, just wave a twenty pound note as payment in a pub. They obviously must be used to everyone using cards to pay, as they had to go and get a cash drawer to put in to the till. And then go and find some cash to put in to the cash drawer. Ten minutes that took them, we’d had quite a bit of our drinks before we got round to actually paying.

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Some people just can’t be happy. There we were, walking along a picturesque street in Ripon, one that didn’t allow motor vehicles down it. We had arrived in Ripon as the second stop of the day, having left Durham after breakfast. We had stopped at Richmond Castle in glorious sunshine. I was melting due to the gloriousness of the sunny day, and since getting of the car in Ripon’s market square I had been staying in the shadows, keeping the fiery glare of the sun off of me and relishing the slight breeze than ran down the ancient cobbled streets. We were approaching the cathedral, the reason for our stop here. The street was flying bunting across the road. It made a lovely foreground to the imposing entrance to the cathedral beyond. I had stopped to take a photo. As I did so an older man, with grey hair and a tidy grey beard, wearing glasses, passed us by muttering. As he continued on his way on the sunny side of the street with a frown on his face, the light breeze carried his muttered words to us. ‘Fucking tourists’. And off he went muttering at anyone else he didn’t consider to be a local. The fact that England were leading 5-0 at half time couldn’t even put a spring in his step. At least everyone else we met was friendly, and the cathedral was great, and it was nice and cool inside. The obligatory guide book, fridge magnet and pen were obtained, and we even got an ice cream before heading to Harrogate and our next overnight stay.

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Harrogate is an old Victorian spa town, full of old Victorian stone and red brick buildings of all shapes and sizes, with large green spaces in the middle. It is the model of what a sedate Victorian town should be. Only no one appears to have told the local residents of today that fact. Having got there late on a Sunday afternoon, we weren’t expecting it to be the liveliest of places. Especially after most of Ripon had started closing at three. Most of the towns restaurants were closing at nine, and by the time we had ventured out they were full of drunken England fans trying to cram some food in before they all closed.

We found a place on the edge of the town centre, where we were served by what appeared to be a twelve year old boy. As we sat outside enjoying the warm evening air another twelve year old boy strutted over in his best pimp impression flicking the collars of his Fila tracksuit top as he did so. But his pimp walk came to a halt as his mother screeched at him to wait at the car and then he had to cram himself into the rear seats. A man with a Salvador Dali moustache sat playing gooseberry on the table in front of us, spouting shite as he tried to ruin the couple’s conversation.

We moved on, admiring the buildings and to find the next drinking location, stepping past the ambulance and police car amongst the broken glass to end up facing a choice of an identikit Pitcher & Piano or a local opposite. Hundreds of drunken England fans or two men and a dog? No choice really. After a quick drink we strolled across one of the green spaces towards some seventies monstrosities sat amongst the other buildings, outside one sat a brand new Bentley. However its owner must have had more money than sense as it was a dreadful pea green colour. The next pub choice was similar to the one before, identikit Slug & Lettuce with drunken England fans, or the Montpelier.

As we sat outside the Montpelier having our drink, one of the England fans wanders down the road past us carrying two something and cokes. He ducks into a shop doorway as if to use the facilities, only to come back out with one arm down his shorts as if he was still trying to find it. The look on the face of the old woman who passed him at the time would have turned him to stone in mythical days. Meanwhile a threesome pulled up and abandoned their car nearby and ran frantically from bar to bar trying to find food before diving back into the car to carry on their search. Just before we were leaving an old man in what appeared to be Ugg wellingtons took his dog across the road, shouted at it to pee and then brought it back into the pub.

We headed off in the almost dark night, drawn towards the largest and most spectacular looking building, only to find it was the Wetherspoons. After a five minute walk to get out the other end we magically found ourselves back on the road to our hotel where we finished off with night caps.

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After being unable to check in because we are too early, we nip into a pie and pasty shop for a spot of lunch as there are two tables available out in the sunlit pedestrianised street. By the time we had got food and outside, some old bids had taken one table, but snaffled all the chairs but one for people who hadn’t arrived yet, and they hadn’t been in to buy anything. Despite the fact we said we’d be quick and that we were there before them and had hot food on plates waiting to be eaten, they were stubbornly reluctant to release one of their snaffled chairs. We took one anyway and were finished before the final member of their party turned up. They were just left with a parting shot ringing in their ears.

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So, after climbing Steep Hill, not really a street name, more a description, we find that the Cathedral is closed for the first day since 2006 (as the helpful tourist information office guide told us). It was because there was filming taking place there for some Netflix random historical drama series about one of the Henry’s that was being produced and directed by Brad Pitt. We weren’t having much luck in getting into historical monuments at the top of hills this week, after Durham Castle was closed to tours due to the RAF centenary celebrations there on the Saturday.

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Norwich Castle Mall. Where no one knows where the hell they are. You go into the car park, well you do when you find it in the signpost free centre. One way systems that only appear when you find out the lane you travelled down the night before on the bus happens to be for buses and taxis only. Then none of the junctions tell you anything. Inside the car park there is no indication of how to get from the car to pedestrian exits. After a lap of the car park we find a door with stairs and a lift up to the mall behind it. Once in the mall, the plan doesn’t show exits to the outside world, and we have to guess the level and direction of our escape. Then once outside there are no maps to the castle and the tourist map picked up from the hotel shows none of the street names that we can see around us.

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Bury St Edmunds, lovely place, but almost impossible to escape from. Why? Because they put random locations on their traffic signs at each roundabout, and then a totally different set of details on the next roundabout. One had signs for Newmarket and the A14, and the next had no mention of either. In any fucking direction. All three ways indicated places that we had already come from. It took ages to escape.

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Google maps. You are without a shadow of a doubt the biggest crock of fucking shit known to man. Where you indicate that there is a junction, roads should actually meet there. It shouldn’t mean that the road we need to get onto actually passes over the road we are on via a fucking flyover. You occasionally put direction arrows on roads to indicate they are one way streets. How about the novel idea of putting arrows on all one way streets instead of just randomly selecting ones that might have? And whilst you are at it, trying getting the arrows to point the right fucking way you utter fuckwits.

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If you can drive and need money, then get yourself to Cambridge and get a taxi driver’s job. You’ll have enough to buy a house and a gold plated Rolls-Royce within months. They start their late night tariff at 7PM, they charge idling time whilst at traffic lights, and the start of the journey only covers 90 yards instead of the standard 170 for increments. All laid out by the council to make them the biggest trip-off merchants in the city. And there is fierce competition for that let me tell you.

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An obviously homeless man is chuntering aggressively to himself and the world in general before he approaches us to ask for money for a cup of tea (whilst carrying and drinking from a can of super strength lager). When told no he starts going off on one and I say ‘fuck off’. He gets louder as he walks away and even Helen has enough and turns to scream at him to shut the fuck up.

Moments later an arrogant tosser looking at his phone nearly walks into her and then stands there refusing to get out of the way, as if he owns the pavement, and it isn’t him that wasn’t looking where he was going. Fuckwit.

But then the journey back to the hotel on the bus showed that not all Cambridge residents are total scum. After confusion over which Sainsbury’s we needed to bus to get to, the driver lets us stay on the extra stops, and a lovely old West Indian woman helps us to get off at the right stop to get the other bus that drops us off near the hotel.

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The hotel itself is infested. They are everywhere. They appear in little groups. They appear to come out of every orifice in the building. They all congregate in the dining area hoping to get some crumbs of the pizzas that have been brought out. They have scurried past us sat in the bar area, glaring at us with their beady little eyes, chattering away amongst themselves in undecipherable sounds. We ask at reception if they will be there at breakfast and if so from what time. We are told that the bus load of Spanish schoolchildren are due to be down for breakfast at nine. Best get up early to avoid the rush though.

Not that it did us much good, they started appearing from half eight, running around with plates that contained croissants and Nutella, or bowls full of Coco-pops, before running off to the grounds to arm themselves with sticks. We went and hid in our room until their coach had gone away before heading out for our final day of the tour.

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It had been a marvellous twelve days. We managed to get to look around at least part of thirteen towns and cities. We saw or visited eleven cathedrals, seven castles, and hundreds of other historic, medieval or ancient buildings. We had Italian, American, East African, English, Turkish, French, Indian, and Mexican food. We drove over a thousand miles through twenty six counties and saw and did things that we hadn’t before. Back in Crawley it was a trip to the tip and a supermarket. Talk about coming back down to earth with a bump.

Fizzling Out

It’s that time of the year for the wheels to completely fall off Spurs’ season. An FA Cup semi-final looms against Manchester United. Despite the fact that the game is going to be played at Wembley – our temporary home stadium for the season will mean nothing. We have lost the same amount of games at Wembley this season as we have in the rest of our away games.

 

United may not have been playing spectacular football this season, but they have been grinding out results nonetheless. In a one off game, Mourinho is more than capable of putting a game plan together to win. I fully expect this to be the case this weekend, and the last chance for us to win a trophy this season will vanish into the ether. We will look to stretch our record of successive FA Cup semi-final defeats from seven to eight.

 

An insipid performance at Brighton in midweek points the way for how the season will finish, there are four games left, Watford, West Brom, Newcastle and Leicester, three of them at Wembley. Four more draws beckon as the season limps to the end. It will give us enough points to finish above Arsenal for the second consecutive season, but it won’t be enough to prevent Chelsea finishing fourth and taking that final Champions League spot.

 

To top the season’s disappointing finish off, Arsenal, spurred on (pun intended) by wanting to give their long term outstanding manager Arsene Wenger a fitting send-off, will win the Europa League, and therefore claim their place in next season’s Champions League as well.

 

Even with all that, a fifth placed finish, semi-final of the FA Cup, and getting through the group stage of the Champions League was a lot better than I expected at the start of the season. I thought that playing every game as an away game, and playing so many teams at Wembley, giving them a big boost in motivation would see us struggle more than normal.

 

At the start of the season I predicted we would finish seventh (I expected Everton to do a lot better after their summer spending spree), get knocked out in the first round of both domestic cups (at least we obliged in the Carabao cup), and not make it through the group stage of the Champions League – even before we drew Real Madrid and Dortmund.

 

We will struggle to keep all of the squad we have together, and another hard season follows, as although we will have a home stadium, it will be brand new and take some getting used to. It will still be shit to get to, only it will be worse than usual as instead of 36k people trying to get there, it will be 62k. On the same poor transport links, at the same time. Late arrivals will be the norm and the atmosphere will suffer. As will Spurs unfortunately.

 

I hope I’m wrong though.