Sunday 14th April 2019

I wake up in the morning, confused after a fairly heavy night on the pop. But I slept OK, it was now daylight and the sound of birdsong filled the air outside.

I lay in bed for a while, and drift back off to sleep until half six, then listen to the radio a while.

I have a shower, get dressed and then pack, but manage to leave my toiletries bag behind, which is par for the course.

As I am finishing, I hear a broad Norfolk voice declaring he can't get down the stairs, he tires every door on the landing before walking back along the corridor. I go out and also try the fire door to the stairs and I find it locked too.

I try again and again, but it was clearly locked. I looked along the passageway to find the fire door, and at the bottom of the fire escape, the owner of the broad Norfolk voice trying to explain to his friends it was almost impossible to get out of the place. I back him up in this.

I walk back into town to try to find a place to have breakfast, and end up in Costa for coffee and a meatball paninni. That felt better, I walk around try to find my friends, and find Whetherspoons full of chanting fans speed drinking pints of Stella. At nine in the morning.

Too early for me.

I leave them to it.

I end up at the station ready to watch more main line action, but I end up observing a stream of Penadlinos calling and leaving the station again. I have a coffee and some naughty chocolate until the clocks creeps round to quarter to eleven. And so begins the half hour amble to the stadium for the midday kick off.

TV pays big money to football, and in return football allows kick off times to be changed to suit TV. As there are two big Prem games in the afternoon, Norwich and Wigan have to kick off at midday. Meaning you either come the day before, the only choice if you are using public transport, or catch the coach from Norwich at four in the morning.

Footy might get millions in cash, but it is done with no thought for the fans who make the experience for those watching hung over on TV.

Meanwhile, we walk along the side of long mostly abandoned canals and through a faceless industrial estate to the DW, a stadium not two decades old, but already looking faded.

My bag containing my dirty washing is inspected before I am allowed in, then up four flights of stairs to the concourse, then into the stadium and up twenty seven rows of seats to my spot five rows from the back on the extreme right hand side of the stand.

So, we just wait, and while we try to drum up some atmosphere, the stadium announcer ensures that music is played at a loud enough volume to drown anything that might be considered atmospheric.

The players come out to warm up, the announcer announces the teams, but the PA is so loud and has so many speakers that it all the words merge into one, so no idea of the teams, and the scoreboard lists the team's sponsors over and over again, but no team news.

So 5,300 Norwich fans bought tickets, and we filled up the huge stand at one end of the ground. We cheered when each player came onto the pitch, and when we could get a word in edgeways, sang our songs, especially to the newly relegated Ipswich Town.

THe teams came out onto the pitch, shock hands and kicked off. But whether it was the early kick off, or Buendia's three match ban, Norwich never really got out of second gear, and soon were chasing Wigan shadows. And Wigan were only just above the relegation zone.

Wigan fight like crazy, and are the better team in the first half, though can't finish. Until the ref gifts them a shocking penalty just before half time.

If any thing, Norwich were worse in the second, not quite firing, like an engine running on three cylinders. A triple substitution, and within minutes, Pukki is sent through and he buries the shot in the corner of the goal.

We go mad.

Wigan nearly snatch it at the end, but the goal is ruled out for being offside.

The game ends level, and Norwich still four points clear of Leeds in second, and 6 ahead of Sheffield Utd in third, with four game s to play and twelve points to play for. City win two out of the four, and we're up.

And that was it. The crowds file out, the players applaud the fans, and they leave. Those of us at the back have ten minutes to wait until we can leave.

I walk back through the industrial estate, then up into town to try to find a place to eat. Whetherspoons is out as it will be filled with people celebrating, or not, the result. I end up in a small family run place, and am offered the menu being told the special is roast beef. That'll do I say.

So I feast on tomato and basil soup followed by roast beef and all the trimmings. I am happy.

Afterwards, all pubs are full, so I go to stand on the station. I try to get on an earlier train, but am told that would cost seventy five quid.

I wait.

My train pulls in at ten past five, I have a window seat, and sit opposite a young lady who sits with headphones on watching her computer screen for the whole trip. I look out of the window at the passing towns and countryside.

I could just do this until the day I die I decide.

It is nearly dark by the time we get to London, I have enough time to get to St Pancras for the direct train to Dover, once sat on the train I tell Jools I will be home at quarter to nine. I settle into my seat and begin to read Good Omens, which is way too engaging. I now need two days set aside to read the start again and through to the end. Just as well its Easter next weekend.

Jools is waiting at Dover, so takes me home where we have a brewm, I have supper and soon it is bed time.

Phew, where did the weekend go?