Back We Go

Well, it's been a bit of a struggle but I've now managed to secure a situation with a computer which has full internet access AND which doesn't get used by anyone else, so can carry on my sporadic thoughts.

Since the last posting various bits and bobs have happened, including (but not limited to) the eventual joining of the Historical Association, the stealing of a couple of train signs (for the overnighters Brussells/Berlin and Berlin/Vienna), the decoration of the house, me getting a new job from September, me getting to go on TV (but not yet) and Colchester United being relegated.

This last thing is possibly the most important. I saw us play and beat Ipswich Town, 2-0, but other results in the week did for us before our 1-1 draw at Leicester City. I was thus faced, on Saturday morning, with a very interesting question. Did I go to Leicester or not? On the positive side, it was a football game and I'd not been to the Walker's Stadium. Indeed, my only experience of sport in Leicester was Leicester Tigers v. Orrell in about 1996, and I was anxious to purge that from the memory. Against, however, was the fact that the game meant nothing at all and would cost about 70 squids, including train fares. In the end, and rather inevitably, I went, making Leicester City ground number 54 visited. Hopefully Scunny will be 55 on the last day of the season. But as I watched us getting pulled apart by Leicester, despite Lisbie giving us the lead, I was conscious of why I was there. It was because I knew, at the end, that Geraint Williams would make a point of coming over and clapping the travelling support (he's probably also worked out that seeing an already-relegated team play 200 miles from their home ground takes a lot of dedication.) Which meant that I, we, the Colchester fans, got to clap him back. That was, in itself, worth the journey.

Back here, ate risotto, went to bed. A fine day, all round. If only I'd not have woken up with a massive hang-over (I reckon I overdid it at the Club last night - the Port is usually what tips the balance) it would've been fine. But I chased those hang-over demons out with orange juice on the train up, and all was well again.

A Cardiff City fan in London said I looked like Hitler. But worryingly, his tone was strangely reverential...