Satisfied with my choice of
seats for the main event, I
turned back to work. Another
seamless internet transaction
executed. I looked forward to
sharing the Upper Rous
experience with the usual
endearing bunch, the likes of:
Clive Getimoff; Smutty Chris
and his lovely daughter; and
Joan of the half-time chocolate
bars, with chunky husband John
behind. We were all going to be
back for our future.
In the Carling Cup. Oh yes,
Watford against Portsmouth was
all set to be another of
Vicarage Road's special nights.
I thought back to the previous
Friday. It could not have been
more different: internet melt
down and a comet's tail of a
phone queue. Watford FC's
entire corpus of baggy rumped
season ticket holders had sat
on the club's spanking new
ticketing site and 0870 number
with predictable consequences.
Odd. Apparently Sir Elton John
is a bigger draw than 'Arry
Redknapp's Premiership flotsam.
I'd received my application
pack, complete with personal
message from Graham Simpson a
few days earlier and,
initially, had decided to pass
up the opportunity.
I had been a fan during Sir
Elt's early years, when he had
much of his own hair and a pure
voice with consonant rich
delivery. But three decades of
well chronicled addictions,
predilictions and illnesses
have taken their toll so that,
in 2004, he sounds much like
his old mucker Rod Stewart;
with Rod the Mod in desperate
need of some prune juice: all
vowel and no movement. 'Peach
Tree Road', Elt's latest
offering, might as well be
called 'Parched Old Crow.'
My views, however, were
irrelevant, and any resistance
futile; the old girl wanted to
go.
7.55am – Friday
So here I am, fingers poised
and Earl Grey steaming by my
side. I had logged onto the
ticket office site the night
before (neat and clean design
by the way, Watford colours and
a minimalist pleasure after the
main site's clutter). I fine
tuned one or two details while
I was there: username
SupremeBeing; password
EasyPeasy.
7.59am
Log in, casually and with a
knowing nod from the virtual
doorman.
Select match (match?): Elton
John. A dainty click of the
mouse.
Choose seats. A blocked map of
the ground. Simple.
8.15am
Casual. Hah! Dainty? Simple?
All are now alien concepts as I
am minded to change my password
to something like
GrrrrmSimpson. Not that I'm
able to, the "by far the most
efficient and effective way to
book tickets" (Simpson) says
that there are no seats
available in any part of the
ground. A phone is blu-tacked
to my ear as I fall back on the
equally useless plan B.
8.20am
The emails, and the rumours,
are sidling in. The brotherhood
of the net stops bickering and
bathes in mutual frustration.
Though two fellow travellers
have managed to get tickets in
front of the stage. This is no
comfort at all. As John Cleese
once said: "It's not the
despair, it's the hope I can't
stand."
8.35am
I have established a pleasing
rhythm of quick-dial/quickkey/
quick-brew but any
admiration for the elegance of
my operation is tempered by a
complete absence of tickets.
8.36am
The old girl is leaving for the
laissez-faire comforts of her
office. I summon up a tender
parting in my considered yet
witty manner: "This is all your
fault. Cow."
9.00am
My pleasing rhythm of engaged
tones (I'm not even the bag
trolley on the end of the
comet's tail) and the internet
equivalent of a dead salmon
leaping upstream to breed has
gone on long enough. I decide
to get some work done instead.
9.31am
Working (kind of). An email
comes through, someone has
managed to get two more tickets
– the same b*****d that got two
earlier – suggests trying
again. Helpful, this chap.
Hateful too.
11.00am
Why did I succumb to the
temptation? Another hour and a
half of my cursed rhythm method
has allowed me to book the same
pair of tickets many, many
times over; but not actually
pay for them. When I am not
being bumped off the site, the
credit card company seems to
have far better things to do
than take my money.
11.10am
Success. Casual, dainty, simple
success. Two tickets in the
front row of the Upper Rous.
I'm your boy now Elt.
And so I settled down to work
again, well what passes for
work on a Friday morning.
Stories were still coming in;
one chap had strolled down the
Occupation Road and booked his
tickets in person (plan C).
Another reminisced on the great
ticket queues of yesteryear,
the ones where lines of the
thermos-sharing unwashed
stretched from the top of the
allotments to a service station
near Oxford.
Others told of calls from
senior personnel at the Club.
They were clearly all hands to
the pump trying to sort out the
problems. That's my very own
peachy Watford, I thought.
Changed password to RosyGlow.
Yet another correspondent
outlined the heirarchy of Elt's
ticket distribution (his fan
club, Watford FC staff,
Sponsors' staff and so on).
Password set to Trotsky04; ice
pick poised menacingly over
keyboard.
Later in the day I had a
thought.
4.50pm
I check my credit card web
site. There are £2,605.49 in
pending transactions. I know
about the £5.49 (a tendency to
the impulse purchase when in
the vicinity of American Hard
Gums) but what of the £2,600?
That's a lot of money for two
tickets – or very reasonable
for 26 tickets, even if they do
all bear the same seat numbers.
The tout in me rears up, I'll
sell the lot of them and let
the stewards clear up the mess
while I'm in the Maldives.
I should have been worried but
I felt pleasantly numb. I knew
it would all be sorted out,
even if my capacity to buy Hard
Gums would be curtailed in the
meantime. I had entered a
serene state, one where I was
smelling of £2,600 worth of
roses. Barely a bed for Sir
Elt, but an enchanted garden of
dreams for the old girl.
5.50pm
The official web site has an
unfortunately-timed photograph
of staff milling around in a
blaze of displacement activity;
not a pump to be seen, still
less any hands on it. I call
the ticket office.
The phone is answered
immediately. I speak to a
helpful chap who says someone
will call me back.
The Club did call later in the
evening with a full apology and
details about the cancellation
of the pending transactions. It
wasn't Graham Simpson on the
line, but I was content. The
club and my money were in good
hands.
7.15am Tuesday
I have been called by the
credit card company. They
confirm that the bad
transactions have gone.
Meanwhile, the Portsmouth and
Elt tickets are in the post.
Dear Earl Grey is still by my
side and has just offered me a
Hard Gum. Bliss.
Footnote
Over the weekend the old girl
indulged in a rare bout of
preening in front of her
family. Sadly she was crushed.
Old Girl: "We've got really
good seats for the Elton John
concert at Watford, which only
we can get cos Anthony's a
season ticket holder and a man
to be reckoned with down the
Occupation Road."
Sister: "Oh we're going to
that, got our tickets last
week." (Horrid daughter is
bestest friend of a player's
little darling).
Brother: "Oh we're going to
that, got our tickets last
year." (Next door neighbour is
a floodlight or something).
Brother in Law: "Oh we're going
with Elton." (Exceedingly
Senior big nob for the event
sponsors).
We soon recovered our
equilibrium, however. None of
these freeloaders would be
around to get Joan's half time
chocolates at the Portsmouth
match. It pays to know your
priorities in this world.
(19/11/04)