Another Steward is directing the coach driver through the network of streets. I hear roadnames batted around. He says a lovely thing about Paul Gasgoine giving his kit away after breaking his arm elbowing George Boateng in the head. We make a stop and two people embark on the coach. I look up to see Cedrick Rousell smiling at me. Bewildered, I smile back. The steward gives final directions to our destination then departs the coach and what is to become my seat, after an initially misrecognised request from Andy. From there I can just see the stretch of road infront of us.
Punctured conversation with Gordon* follows. Basic, primative stuff, how many games I致e been to, where I知 from etc. I am at ease because they are only human, they致e just invested in different skills. However I知 riding with giants and clearly the poorest person on the bus.
The tarmac blurs before me, eliminated by the radiating glow of the headlights. The journey continues. Despite the illustrious company all coach journeys have the same basic principles. Wheels, forward motion, the road churning beneath the axles. Progress.
It becomes apparent that I知 surrounded by free lucozade. Infront of me is a fridge - stored in the dashboard. Behind me I hear vague mumblings about free kicks but it is predominantly quiet. A sullen atmosphere after a comprehensive defeat is unable to penetrate my joy. I知 still completely buzzing of the situation!#
* the coach driver, I知 afraid.