The worst thing about going away (I mean away on holiday, not in the ‘opposite to a home fixture’ sense) is the coming back. Not only are you returning to reality, and the proposition that what you have eaten and drunk for the past x number of days is probably not a sustainable lifestyle choice if you want to see your next birthday, but there is also the return journey.
Now admittedly travelling back from Edinburgh on Saturday with the better half did involve first class train tickets (book em in advance kids and then collect as many free sandwiches, crisps and biscuits as you can for a truly satisfying, artery-furrying bargain) but it still means you’re a step closer to going back to work and 5 hours on the train goes much slower when the adventure is ending. Then of course choosing to travel home on a Saturday (no I am not sure why I opted for that return date either) which caused the inevitable fixture clash. But I had my phone, so I could still follow the home game against Banbury. And by half time I confess, the pain of missing the game was reducing. It was 0-0, we weren’t exactly setting the world alight and there was a small monsoon sitting over Clarence Park (slightly worse than the extreme air-con that East Coast trains seems overly fond of). Little did I know what was going to come next.
BOSH! Seventeen minutes left and we are up 1-0. By the time I have excitedly nudged better half in the ribs (his celebration was suitably effusive…ahem) and tweeted my excitement, bloody Banbury have equalised. Hardly time for me to curse briefly before the buggers have taken the lead. Cue short sulk from yours truly and vague look of pity (or was it a ‘don’t come between man and his Saturday newspaper’ hard stare) from the beloved. But the football gods have not finished with us yet. A Saints equaliser!!! in the 89th minute. And before I have even got the celebratory tweet off we have scored a 90th minute winner. So my equalising tweet becomes a winning tweet and the better half goes on yet another short diatribe about my decision to abandon TATTPIB, no doubt to aid my celebrations…
Strange, but that remaining, train-locked, hour and forty five minutes as we crawled into Kings Cross didn’t seem so bad.
For a proper match report