Friday 27 April 2012

Tick Kiss

It might have passed you by that there is quite a big football game taking place in Manchester this coming Monday. It’s kind of a big deal: Manchester City are hosting Manchester United with the winners having a good claim to count themselves as likely favourites to win the league.

Inevitably there is a slightly higher desire to watch this game. This has led to various rumours and media stories that tickets for the game are exchanging hands for exorbitant amounts. Amounts in the units of thousands have been touted, pun intended. That’s for one ticket with the value of around £40. These stories have led to the odd hypothetical conversation with blue friends of mine about what they would ask. This is where one’s desires and personal wealth become issues to balance out.

It’s the classic case of supply and demand. If someone would be prepared to offer someone the price to pay going to all home games next season, let’s call it £500, at the expense of watching Monday’s game in a pub/at home it’s certainly something to think about if you are struggling to afford your ticket next season.

What the fuck am I going on about this for? Well there are a couple of colleagues who look after season tickets for friends who live too far away to be able to make midweek games¹. ‘Look after’ means that they get someone to use the ticket when the owners are unavailable. The arrangement means the owner gets the money for the ticket they have already paid out for previously. Yes, the buyer is getting a ticket for the game but they are kind of doing the person a favour at the same time.

Stay with me, I promise you: it’s not worth it.

So, we’ve got these two issues: high demand for tickets leading to tickets exchanging hands for ten times face value (or more); and people regularly buying tickets off people in a mutually convenient arrangement. I was told that two people who can’t make the game have told the person who looks after it that because of the big money exchanging hands they are going to need double money for the tickets from the regular people who take them. The rationale being they don’t want to miss out on making a bit of money when it’s in the air.

It’s a bit wank that isn’t it? It’s the worst of both worlds; simultaneously displaying a lack of gratitude for the people who have helped them out all season yet only making a bit of extra money, the equivalent of one extra ticket. If you’re going to pay for a holiday or a full season’s worth of football next year then, okay, there’s an economic drive there. To do it the way they have done it, though, just made me think they’re a pair of twats. The kind of people who pocket change when you give them too much money to get you a sandwich from Greggs.

I am not explaining this situation to make some Citeh fans look bad. If I wanted to make come Citeh fans look bad I would have just shown you a picture of them. Seriously, this kind of weak behaviour makes me wonder what people all are all about. One of my mates, who loves the blues more than one might argue is proportional to the rest of life, is prepared to watch the game in the pub, even though he has a season ticket, because he has a friend coming over from Italy to watch the derby – which was planned a long time ago. That’s a person right there; that’s a stand-up guy.

I shall, of course, be hoping whatever any City fan has paid for the privilege will prove not to represent value for money.

¹Contrary to popular opinion not all Manchester City fans live in Manchester city centre and the nearby suburbs; likewise not everyone who attends United games lives in Kent and Surrey (most of them live in Ireland).

Lowlight

It comes to something when one can get vain about what one wears when running to the off licence to get some lagers in to sit alone on a Friday night debating on Twitter what was the best way to eat Supernoodles. But tonight when I went to the off licence to get some lagers in – I was sat alone debating the merits of Supernoodles on toast versus Supernoodle on bread, on Twitter with a slice of the Byrne family. Halfway there, not a long journey, I realised I had grey jogging bottoms on with a brown coat. I nearly turned back to change. I’m not sure who would be judging me at 10pm on Platt Lane, but the only person narrow-minded enough to judge someone on that pathetically shallow level was wearing the same outfit as me.

[You get that it was me don’t you?]

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