It's a TLS first: a guest blog. Courtesy of my pliable sister, whose loyalty doesn't quite extend to going in the Cov end, here is the Boxing Day Match report. Bitterly disappointed to be handing over the reins for this one. See you at Peterborough as part human part Stilton.

When originally given the opportunity of seeing Coventry (the chosen team of my brother, The Lonely Season himself) on our home turf of Bristol on Boxing Day, I agreed willingly (albeit as one with little or no knowledge of football matches beyond the fact that they provide a rare sanctuary for people who enjoy being inebriated in the middle of the afternoon, of which I am one.) With the added bonus of being able to go with both my siblings, and the angry chants of a football match giving me a suitable outlet for my resentment of Christmas being over, I was more than happy to join in. I bought my ticket with a tentative excitement, and it was delivered shiny and promising onto the welcome mat of my parents’ house. We gathered more troops: first my sister’s boyfriend and then a family friend and her boyfriend. There was a sense of festive spirit surrounding the occasion, and the fortuity of the elements coming together in our favour seemed to be something of a Christmas miracle.

And then disaster struck. It was of the kind that can never be foreseen or prevented, the kind that is hurtful and yet perhaps, inevitable. The Lonely Season, my supposed brother, decided to spend Christmas with his girlfriend. Let me just say straight off that I have no animosity towards her for this decision. I would do just the same, let me tell you, and I would do it even if I lived much further away than Ireland, where they whisked themselves off to. No, my issue is not with her (being, as she is, the best thing that happened to my brother since he decided to stop bleaching his hair). My issue is that The Lonely Season not only abandoned me and my sister and our retinue of festive hooligans, he also abandoned YOU, devoted readers that you are. I can only hope that my modest – and when I say modest, I mean non-existent – understanding of the beautiful game can be of some service to his public.

With this in mind, let us continue. Boxing Day was upon us, and we – my sister, her boyfriend, and myself – set out into the cold sunshine on foot. Having not left the house at all on Christmas Day, I felt buoyant with enthusiasm and only a little upset that I didn’t have TLS taunting me affectionately and ruffling my hair. We stopped at a local for a quick sharpener and to meet the rest of our crew, but after a quick debrief on the festivities we downed our bloody marys and set off again. Having only once been to a football match before, and never in my home city, I was amazed that the stadium had hidden itself so well for all of my twenty-three years. With a reckless zeal I informed my sister that since it was so close, I would of course start coming regularly. She just looked at me, smiled like a parent humouring their child, and pushed me ahead through the turnstile.

Once inside, it became apparent that we were a little late to the party. Given that I had been forced by the group to be at the Rovers end, there was naturally no room, as Boxing Day gives all locals an excuse to escape any unwanted relatives who are still lurking after Christmas. So instead the five of us had to stand on the steps, constantly being shunted aside by those going up or down, whilst I looked wistfully at the modest group gathered at Coventry’s end of the pitch. This invasion of my personal space actually prevented me from seeing the first goal.

Just as a small child pushed past and trod on my foot on his way down (without so much as an apology or a look back, mind you), there was an eruption from the crowd around me and I realised with dismay that Rovers had scored. This was about twenty minutes in, after a few missed opportunities and at least one near miss for Coventry. I was outraged, and worried I’d missed the only goal of the match. My knowledge (and eyesight) being as limited as it is, I knew that I could only reasonably make comments about the progress of the game based on scores. At half time there had still only been one goal, and we escaped for a toilet break. My sister and I were delighted to discover that football is the only public event we’ve been to at which there is no queue for the ladies’ toilet. I thought perhaps it was almost worth the sense of alienation I felt at being so obviously in a minority, and took as long as I possibly could washing my hands for good measure. After a quick restorative cigarette we went back into the fray, managing to move away from the steps but also closer to one of the most vocal Rovers fans in the entire stadium.

After fifteen minutes, in which I judged that Coventry were doing badly because they rarely came near to the goal, there was another goal from Rovers and I was almost lifted in the air by the aggressive air thumping of surrounding fans. Unfortunately, whilst the taunts of “Can we play you every week?” were still being thrown out by the crowd around me, Coventry managed to score and not one of us saw it. I was again outraged, but heartened that perhaps they were due to make a comeback.

Alas no. There was a third goal for Rovers twenty minutes later, one that my sister’s boyfriend meaningfully informed me was from twenty yards and scored after a shimmy from Mr Billy Bodin. A final goal for Rovers was the result of a penalty shortly before the end, making the final tally an embarrassing 4-1 to Rovers. I came away disappointed that Coventry had lost (for whilst I’m relatively impartial, I think it’s definitely more bleak to come all that way on a crowded Megabus and still lose), but still pleased to have taken even a small role in the camaraderie of being a spectator. In that spirit we all decided to head back to the local, where my memory of the evening becomes even patchier than my recollections of the match itself. So as I hand back to The Lonely Season, I can only make my humble apologies for any misrepresentation of the events, and wish you (and Coventry) good luck for 2017.

No hay in the meadow

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

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