The last time I went to a football game was on Saturday 7 March last year when my 12-year-old son and I went to see QPR play Preston North End. When we got there we were handed a certificate, signed by the manager, congratulating us on having travelled 228 miles. Pretty heroic given QPR’s record on the road is so poor the fans have a song they sing after away games, adapted from ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’: ‘We’re the Rangers, the mighty Rangers, we never win away… a win away, a win away, a win away…’ etc. But on that occasion we won 3-1, in spite of going a man down. The scenes on the train back to Euston were something to behold. When Charlie and I commiserate with each other about not having been to a match for more than a year, we can at least cling on to the fact that the last game we went to was an unlikely QPR victory.
A rainy night watching QPR in Nottingham now has the same exotic allure as going backpacking in Kathmandu
I’ve missed going to the football with Charlie more than anything else in the past 12 months.
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