The same holiday that I had the love note nightmare, I received a phone call from my best friend’s mother. This was unexpected to say the least, but she rang to bestow on me a great responsibility.
It was her son’s birthday coming up, and as a surprise present she wanted to get him some Chelsea tickets. Unsure of the best way to go about getting some, she turned to me, naturally, since I was his inspiration in becoming a Chelsea fan, back in the day.
I gleefully agreed, and in it for me was a ticket of my very own; not, I should note, that there needed to be an incentive.
I returned to England, shamed by my recent romantic discrepancy, happy for the distraction of my ticket mission. I was in text contact with the mother, keeping her posted of my status and progress.
The morning the tickets went on general sale, I dutifully awoke minutes before the hour, readied my computer, primary mission objective about to be tackled. After the inevitable loss of internet connection and freezing of computer, some hairy moments indeed at 7.o.clock in the morning with so much on the line, I finally confirmed the purchase of two brand spanking new Chelsea tickets.
My friend’s birthday came, and with it he received a card from his mum revealing the surprise of the tickets and that I was in possession of them. He rang me happily and we chatted about the forthcoming match, a conversation in which he also revealed he had his mum’s phone when one of my texts came through…
“I saw your name in her inbox and went cold. I thought the worst for a minute there Wiggy… I swear to God… If you ever…”
And so the day of the match came round, and as you might expect, I was in London with tickets safely stowed away, ready and waiting for me to pick up as I left to meet my friend on the way to Stamford Bridge…
I woke with a start, my hazy mind racing despite the shackles of the pub’s beer from the night before. Where were the tickets? Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I was in London, tick. The tickets? No tick. Tickless. Ticketless and tickless. They were sitting prettily on my bedroom desk all the way back in Manningtree. The match was a lunchtime kick off and only a matter of hours away. I was up shit creek, the paddle just a distant memory, and time was a-ticking.
I jumped out of bed, hastily pulling on whatever clothes I could find, phone in hand, Dad on the line. I quickly explained the situation, at which he sighed and muttered sentences which revolved around words like ‘typical’ and ‘useless’. Understandably I guess.
We came up with a rescue plan: there was not enough time for me to get to Manningtree and back before the match, so Dad agreed to drive the hour or so to Stanstead and I would meet him there having caught the train. Time was tight, but it was feasible. The exchange went without a hitch as I met Dad, two tickets and two Chelsea shirts in hand, well and truly saving my bacon.
In all of this excitement, in this race against time, this adrenaline enhanced episode, I still found the time to fall asleep on the train back, perhaps because of my hung over state. I awoke groggily when a Dutch tourist poked me and enlightened me as to our arrival in to ‘Liverpool…’. You have got to be kidding me.
Heart in mouth, I raced off the train, incredulous that I could have made such an error as getting on a train going completely in the wrong direction… But thankfully the Dutch tourist had innocently left the ‘Street’ part out of the name, a small mistake which I might otherwise have picked up on had I had a clearer mind. I was still on course, still on track, still ready to enter the final stage of my mission.
And to be honest, the rest went rather well in comparison to what had happened before. I met my friend and handed him one shirt and one ticket. We got into the ground with plenty of time and even found time to have a few beers before the 12.45 kick off, which went some way towards helping my fragile state. We watched the sort match that we have grown used to expecting, only being able to purchase tickets at home against mediocre lower table sides. Afterwards, we went and met our friends in the pub.
After what was a nightmare mission of a day, it all turned out rather well in the end, my ticket mission a victory gripped from the jaws of defeat. Aided by the contributions of my father and a conscientious Dutch man, I was to courier those tickets with suave and aplomb. (If he hadn’t woken me up, I might not have got off that train. Once, I fell asleep on a train into London, and only woke up when we approached a station on the way back out. Luckily, it was in Zone 6 on the tube, so I just got on that),
Dan, I owe you a ticket, maybe given past experiences, you should get them and I will just pay?!
The Warm Up 