The Card: Every Match, Every Mile by Steve Hill

Author:Steve Hill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ockley Books
Published: 2018-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Game 27 of 50 →

This is the game that nobody wanted, particularly me. And if Richards had put that chance away I’d be sat at home in the warm watching Everton versus Arsenal on BT Sport. The same applies if Witton had scored instead of hitting the bar, or if Lynchy hadn’t pulled off that wonder save. But football is full of ifs, and the reality is that I face the daunting prospect of driving from door to turnstile on my own. At least the car is fully functioning, having spent its solitary day at home having a new radiator fitted, yet another financial sacrifice in pursuit of the mythical Card.

With the Wembley arch silently mocking me, I set off in early afternoon. It’s the kind of day that needn’t have bothered, as grey swiftly turns to black. Even the self-styled Butty Man of the A41 is nowhere to be seen, which must be a great disappointment to people who enjoy al fresco dining in wet lay-bys. Released from the tyranny of The Driver, I am free to eat where I choose, and I choose Newcott Fish & Chips: frequently passed, rarely frequented. Primarily catering to visitors to the nearby Stoke Heath prison, calling it a chippy doesn’t really do it justice. It’s a one-stop shop including a mini-supermarket, restaurant and even licensed bar — what better way to wind down after a chat with a murderer?

Famous throughout the surrounding metres for its seemingly random bespoke meal boxes, I opt for the Lunch Box, which comprises ‘Chips in a box with fish cake, a small sausage and a choice of either curry, gravy, mushy peas or beans’. Other options include Fish Box, Pie Box, and Off Your Box, which consists of a battered sausage, a Texan bar and a can of Special Brew.

Refusing to pay the indoor premium, I enjoy the latest in in-car dining, and it may be the best £2.95 I’ve ever spent. Obviously I go for the mushy peas — I’m not an animal. Girding my stomach for the remaining journey, I cruise into Chester with hours to spare. I drive past people on running machines at the Northgate Arena, where I saw my first gig, and circumnavigate the roundabout where I had my head kicked in by a pair of scallies. Good times.

There’s no point going to the ground alone this early, so I park up near Telford’s Warehouse and read The Non-League Paper. Draped in the smock and with a Chester FC foam hand on the parcel shelf of the car, a passer-by could easily mistake me for a non-league football fan, something I’m not sure that anyone really sets out to be.

Bucked into action by this prospect, I decide to take a stroll into town for the first time in years, retracing a chunk of my old walk to school. With my birthday out of the way, Christmas festivities are beginning in earnest and the area in front of the town hall is host to one of those twee German markets, including a pop-up Real Ale bar.

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