Have you ever spoken to a steward at a football match, or barged passed these marshals desperately trying to find your seat, or your place to stand? Stewards are the people who are dressed in shockingly bright and bulky clothes.
It had been a relentless week at work with endless emails, continuous meetings and a phone that never stopped ringing. Come 5.15pm on Friday, I needed to do some shopping and I did not quite have the energy to drag myself around the aisles.
I would love to think that I wrote about tickets on a Bank Holiday Monday and the article has so much impact that Town introduce a Group Ticket Bundle on Tuesday. However, I am not that sure whether God moves in such mysterious ways.
For the first time for a while, I had the chance to go to last Saturday’s derby. I had been at home for the week and it would have been natural to head to Portman Road for a fixture that has given so many memories down the years. I did not go. I could not quite bring myself to buy the ticket, and I felt awful. Things had changed.
I lived in Warwickshire during the late noughties in a place called Leamington Spa. You may have been there and it is a nice place. Sitting on the town’s green by the River Leamington with an ice cream or cold beer is not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
Talk to certain rugby followers, and they regard football as a sub-normal game, played by GQ posing models full of hair gel and attitude, diving like graceful swans at the slight brushing of a leg or arm.
Down in Devon, it has been as cold as East Anglia without the snow and a recent Tuesday night saw me without any electric in my flat. Much against every mental and physical sinew in my body, I am forced to go to the local supermarket to seek the much needed ‘leccy.’ I have just come back from the local gym after some early stage charity run training.
It seems an age since I wrote a frustrated piece for this site on a dull and dank Monday evening in Devon. 2012 has been and gone. Loan players have been and gone but you like to think that the 1st January 2013 is a clean slate.
I was sitting in a bar during another wet Saturday lunchtime, reading the papers. Going past the endless Olympics stories, I got to the double page spread about the recently completed John Terry trial. One page was full of who said **** to who.
I suppose that Town are in another crisis. The first time that I wrote for TWTD was in the post-play-off crisis of 2005. I was so incensed by the sale of Town’s then-best players that I wasted a university afternoon writing an essay about what I thought had gone wrong at Portman Road.
Is it really nearly 15 years ago on Friday 11th October 1996, when I went to see my first derby fixture at Carrow Road? These were the days before derby games were forced to become an automatic companion to the Sunday roast. Back in 1996, I was 16 with a load of adolescent attitude, acne-spotted moodiness but excited about the biggest game that I had seen since starting to watch Town play.