7:45 AM: Wake up with stinking hangover. Fall into clothes. Leave house. It's cold. Walk in trance down North End Road. 8:30 AM: Arrive at Stamford Bridge. Stand with mouth hanging moronically open at the size of the queue for phase 2 Champions League tickets. Reluctantly join said queue. The bloke in front takes his head from his hands long enough to tell me that: "It's gonna be at least seven hours before we get to the front of the queue, and then the tickets will all have gone", before replacing head in hands. I christen him Suicidal Sid, wish him a fond good morning and settle down to the inevitable. 9:01 AM: Mobile phone rings. It's Neil. "Where are you ?" I say. "Standing behind you" he says. I turn round and there he is. First laugh of a day that looks as though laughs are going to be in painfully short supply. 9:28 AM: We have moved up the stairs and are now in the gloom of the concourse of the Shed Upper stand. Chelsea FC have thoughtfully left the lights off, presumably in order to make us feel welcome, so we grope around in the dark. The queue stretches the entire length of the stand and back again. We exchange glances and shake our heads mournfully.. 10:14 AM: Neil cracks and goes off to get us a cup of tea. I am left with Suicidal Sid, who leans against the wall, sighing every now and then. I feel depressed for some reason that I can't quite put my finger on... 10:52 AM: Neil returns with nice polystyrene cups of tea that he's obtained from the Moon, judging by the time it took him to get them. Envious looks cause a frisson of danger to ripple up and down the queue. Spirits are rising. 11:17 AM: Suddenly, with virtually no warning, nothing happens. There's no respite. I reflect that quite clearly queueing for tickets for a football match is one of the things that will confuse the hell out of visitors from other planets when they land. You'd have a job, wouldn't you, to explain this lunacy. 11:43 AM: I can feel my mind turning to mush. In desperation I've just read a discarded copy of The Sun. Only pages 19-47 are left. Why ? There must be an answer: it's staring me in the face, but I can't see the wood for the trees. I beseech God, to no avail. People in the queue shift subtly in the direction of away. 12:04 PM: We entertain the slightly scared people around us with innuendo about Gary Glitter's court case, which provides brief relief. Others in the queue seem keen to take the sick jokes to even lower depths. Suicidal Sid lets out the first of what turns out to be a series of ever-worsening farts. Everyone who gets a whiff gags. More depression. 12:37 PM: Things are looking up: we've turned the corner at the far end of the Shed Upper, and are now coming back the other way. This gives rise to a manic outpouring of glee from our little group. Even Suicidal Sid lightens up. He breaks his silence to ask us "Where's the highest window in this joint ?". Now it's our turn to move away. 12:39 PM: We come back down to Earth with a thump as we realise we're only half way there. Suicidal Sid punctuates the gloom with a noisome fart that appals people fifty yards away. We slide into blissful unconsciousness for a few sweet seconds. 13:10 PM: We begin to find virtually anything that happens hilariously funny. Suicidal Sid pulls a half eaten ham sandwich from his pocket and inspects it dubiously. I whisper to Neil: "He's run out of gas, so he's stocking up.." Both of us collapse in fits of laughter. We realise that we have achieved a state of consciousness that many have attempted to reach, but few have achieved: forget Nirvana, we are Queue Happy. 13:49 PM: We've reached the top of the stairs leading down to the entrance to the stand and the box office. We are positively light headed with joy. I'm sure I catch Suicidal Sid with a grin on his miserable coupon for a few seconds. Neil tells me not to be ridiculous. 14:10 PM: Three verses of the Dambusters March followed by the Hallelujah Chorus: we're there ! We'll never complain or be miserable about anything again ! 14:11 PM: We are appalled as Chelsea charge us £1 extra for each of the three tickets, presumably for having the cheek to buy them with a credit card, even though they're selling the three as one "mini-season ticket", and you cannot buy them singly. Bastards. 14:12 PM: We head for Burger King and home. We spot Suicidal Sid waving his tickets around in the doorway of The Jolly Maltster, farting and yelling "I can take any man in this pub !". We hurry past. I reflect that it could have been a lot worse. "How?" asks Neil.
(five hours, actually, but who's counting ?)