Heaven only knows why I’m writing this blog at the usual time – late – on a Thursday evening because it could have been written days ago. Perhaps it was exhaustion – travel fatigue – that kept me quiet until the deadline loomed.
I’m beginning to think that it’s easier and quicker to get to the Isles of Scilly (see pic above, technical glitches permitting) than it is to make the trek to N17. Forgive me for regaling you with yet another travel yarn – Robert Louis Stevenson I am not but here’s a wee fact for you: double checking how RLS spelt his L, I discovered that he was born Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson. No idea why or when he made the change.
You’ll be glad – and probably not surprised – to know that Insomniacs Anonymous have been in touch to enquire about the possibility of recording some of my footie ramblings; they reckon only the worst cases will stay awake long enough to make the entire journey to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
And this latest iteration is one of the longest and most convoluted of them all. Mind you, it pales into insignificance with the expeditions of dedicated fans venturing to away matches. For instance, at least one Larne supporter travelling to Norway for his side’s UEFA Conference League match against Molde, had to take six flights. There was, apparently, a chartered flight but presumably it was more direct. Larne’s rise up the ranks has been helped by investment from a local businessman who helped found Purple Bricks but you’ll be glad to hear that the club, founded in 1889, still plays in red.
This saga is starting slowly, a bit like the journey. The warning signs were there at the beginning, at Lichfield Trent Valley, when the 1250 Avanti train to Euston was still there at 1400 – and beyond. A sensible soul might have taken the hint but I had paid for the car park and was booked in to the Lee Valley Youth Hostel for the night, non-refundable, so I ploughed on. Well, got on the stationary train (not the one I’d booked) and ate the delicious pastrami focaccia roll from the Bore Street Bakery. I’d need the sustenance.

Self-explanatory
In due course, we started moving and crawled to Tamworth (not far as many of you know, maximum five minutes). Taking a breath of air with the smokers on the platform, I heard a faint announcement saying something about a train to Derby, then change for London St Pancras. Hmmm. Will I, won’t I? I decided to go for it just as the Avanti train manager was telling us that his train would terminate at Rugby. Chaos everywhere in the vicinity of Euston apparently. So, Derby it was.
We arrived at St P at rush hour, of course and I headed for the tube, dodging people who’d just been decanted from France. I was still thinking I’d have time to get to Cheshunt and dump my stuff at the youth hostel, two minutes’ walk from the station. Change to the overground at Seven Sisters, then train to Cheshunt. It might have worked in theory but on the tube there was an announcement that told us that there were no overground services from Seven Sisters or Tottenham Hale. Noooooo. Surely not? What next?
Off at Seven Sisters, where a lovely, cheerful young woman, whose job was to tell people that the station was now closed, admired my earrings and advised me to find a caff near the stadium and “chill”! I took her advice to heart, found a taxi (the driver was wearing a Spurs shirt) and met up with John “The Oracle” at La Barca near the ground. It was nearly 1900 by this time, with kick-off scheduled for 2000. I ordered an omelette and chips – it was not a night for salad – and relaxed as it started tipping it down outside.

Waiting to drop the bags.
Then we heard that kick-off had been delayed by 35 minutes!!! So much for trains home. Turned out Qarabag, our opponents, had been stuck in traffic for a couple of hours. Then I got stuck in the bag drop queue – why didn’t I just bring my toothbrush and a pair of spare knickers – or should that be a spare pair of knickers? Scan QR code, register, pay a tenner, all the while juggling the blasted bags. Patience. Breathe. Smile. Be polite. Aaaaaaagh.
Then what happens? We have a man sent off within seven, SEVEN, minutes. Bloody hell. Turns out their defence is even leakier than ours, their strikers are more profligate than ours and our goalie made some cracking saves, our ten men put a shift in and we won 3-nil. Another bonkers night with the Spurs. (The computer changed bonkers to bankers and I suppose that really does sum up football.)

Our man trudging off.
Another queue to pick up the bag; a scurry to Northumberland Park (don’t ask), knowing I’d no hope of catching the 2307, the last train to Cheshunt according to my reading of the timetable; another queue; don’t worry the policeman said, the 2307 has been cancelled, you can camp on the platform until the morning…….No, of course he didn’t say that but because of the disruption all the Cambridge-bound trains were stopping everywhere, including Cheshunt. A young man gave me his seat and I found the youth hostel, keeling over the reception desk shortly before midnight.
“You’re in lodge 4,” said the guy manning the desk, directing me outside again. As I turned the corner, I saw five lodges and counted….yes, of course, you couldn’t make it up. Outside lodge 4 stood the welcoming committee: two guys, bearded, tattooed and naked apart from their underpants, were on the doorstep drinking beer and chatting.
It had been a long day but I did clock that they were in a lot better shape than I was. And they were very, very apologetic as they stood aside to let me in.
I slept like a log.

A 70th birthday present that will have this novice jigsawer struggling to stay afloat – look at all that blue!! Sorry no pics of my welcoming committee.