The Library of Dreams

Bedford to Manchester, once again, but this time there was not a single drop of alcohol involved! Nope, today saw the trek to go and see the mighty Red Devils in the 2nd leg of their Last-16 tie against Marseille. Father Mitten had managed to get 2 tickets, "as a treat". I've always enjoyed going to Old Trafford. The buzz surrounding 73,996 people all packed into a huge arena, sacrificing limbs and voicebox, (or maybe not), to push your team over the line. We never get to go very often, possibly once a season, but when we do, it's always an enjoyable day out.

In case you're wondering, yes I am "one of those fans". I do consider myself a poor Man United fan, based on the fact I hardly ever go and see them and, the last couple of years, am not really bothered whether they win or lose. It's different when you're actually there though...

However, before we embarked on our journey, of which I shall get to, I first had to venture into town to look for a panda. Genuinely. However, I couldn't find the fancy dress shop and seeing as I was running out of time, I bought a panini and made my way home. At 2.30, we left our driveway for the long 30 second drive to the pub. Yep. We were meeting 'Phil' and 'Dan', 2 other people who had been chucked into a car-sharing scheme. Phil and Dan are your natural "blokes". Smokers, drinkers and the intelligence of your average toddler, and as they jumped into the back seats, the discussion instantly turned to football, and naturally, how referees are to blame for everything. These guys did not have any knowledge of how football worked. I imagined them going to matchdays, shouting at the referee non-stop for 90 minutes and thinking they know better than Giggs and co. They're tirades on 'How Referees Ruin Football' and 'How Referees Never Give a Decision for United' quickly stopped as I mentioned I was a referee, and suggested they should try it out for themselves before shifting the blame on to them.

The rest of the journey was fairly quiet.

When we got in and around Manchester, the Sat Nav attempted to send us to Old Trafford via Mumbai but as we finally found our bearings, we went to park round the back of an unused landfill site, paying a ridiculous £10 for the privilege, and did what most football fans do. Head to the pub.

Now, this place wasn't for the faint-hearted. It reminded me of the Bluebell in Bedford. Full of dodgy alcoholics who spend their whole weekends drinking 'John Smiths', and after buying 2 pitchers of Carlsberg at £12 a pop, of which I had none, and some of what my Dad called, "waffle" and what I call, "bullshit", we made our way to the stadium, via Lou Macari's Chippy, (that charged us a further £11 for cheeseburger and chips, twice), leaving the "blokes" to get as hammered as possible. Our seats were in the 1st tier of the massive North Stand, level with the goal on the opposite side of the dugouts.

The game itself was distinctly average. United went 1-0 up early on, but despite being ahead for 85 minutes of the 90, the fans were not to be heard. If this place was the "Theatre of Dreams", then we were watching a ballet, not a musical. It might aswell have been silent, as I wistfully watched the top tier of the stand behind the goal, full to the rafters with Marseille fans making an absolute racket. It was embarrassing. I like an atmosphere when you go to watch football matches. Surprisingly for me, I love the banter and the competition with the other fans, and wished, more than anything, for a bit more hostility towards the away fans. We went 2-0 up, thanks to 'The Little Pea' but a Wes Brown own-goal, (naturally), meant for squeaky bum time for the quiet United contingent. We held on fairly comfortably and as the final whistle sounded, the biggest noise of the night was heard. Everyone making for the exits.

We found our way back to the car, still in one piece thankfully, and waited. We then waited some more and after a fair amount of time, eventually saw the "blokes" stagger round the corner. Great. This trip home is going to be eventful.

In fact, it wasn't. They both fell asleep in the back seats, meaning a less awkward drive than on the way there, and despite a couple of near fateful diversions, we eventually found our way home and ended up damn-near pushing the other 2 out of the car. They still had a 30-minute drive home ahead of them, and they might well be sat in the pub car park, asleep.

All in all, a successful trip, but I did notice I have sank into my shell a bit. I was practically silent during the scarce discussion on the journey there and the more detailed chat at the pub, where I would hope to take at least some part. It didn't really matter in the end.

Tomorrow, hopefully, sees the beginning of my war with Student Finance UK, as the applications for getting loans for University, open. I have heard stories of pain and anguish from these people, so am not expecting an easy ride. Still, alarm set for 10am.

And I didn't even get round to the story of the scary middle-aged woman and the silent raving man... Another time, maybe.