Off, then, to Underhill, home of Barnet, who somehow induced Fabio Capello and Trevor Brooking to travel to Edgware to open their training ground the other week.
I'm not working. It's a day off. Miss C and the tiny one suggested (rather too eagerly for my liking) that I leave them in Southampton post-Christmas and, like some kind of neglected Victorian child, make my own entertainment . And what do I do, after picking up the furry one from his Christmas stay at dog prison? That's right I go to the fucking football. Barnet v Northampton Town. On my own. Sometimes I can see why people say I don't quite interact with the real world as I should.
And for £13, plus another £3 for a for a semi-literate programme, plus some more extortion for a semi-edible pie and a steaming cup of Bovril, I stand, watch the Northern Line trains amble in and out of High Barnet, listen to the man behind me compare the Scrubs with Pentonville and have a ball. It's a strange place, a TV producer's idea of what a homely football ground might be. Had I money, I'd buy them. If we are to judge people, perhaps the response to the "if you had serious money would you buy a football club?" question is a start. Obviously the answer is "obviously".
A little boy comes in with his grandfather (let's just assume I'm right and he's not one of this 70-year-old fathers) and stands in front of me. They've both got Barnet scarves around their necks and they've having a ball too. Until the kid takes a can of pop from his coat.
Before you can say "how do you spell 'Al Quieda'?" and before he's opened it, security (begging the question of why Barnet v Northampton Town needs security) pounce.
"You can't have that in here."
Grandpa thinks he's joking. The kid thinks he's joking. I think he's joking. He's not joking. In fact he's scowling like Avram Grant when Portsmouth concede a fourth. Nonplussed and visibly upset, granddad takes the can and puts it in his pocket. They both look like they're about to cry. I feel like crying for them and suddenly their Barnet scarves don't keep them quite so warm. Security marches off, impervious to pain. Nice PR work, The Bees. It's not as if they need fans.
And yes, of course, people shouldn't bring cans into football grounds - there may even be a notice saying exactly that - but that's not really the point is it? Call me overly trusting, but I'd wager the grandchild wouldn't have thrown anything anywhere.
Anyway, the game doesn't produce a goal and it's literally freezing (memo to self: don't wear a shorter scarf just because it was a Christmas present) but Northampton's Adebayo Akinfenwa is the tubbiest player I've seen in a while, Barnet's Dean Sinclair gets himself sent off (surely "being stupid" is a red card offence in itself) for two pointless bookings and the 10 men hang on gamely, with home goalkeeper Jake Cole the best player on the pitch by however long a country mile is. Across the pitch from me, a couple of fans are forcibly ejected. Wow.
And the difference between this and the Premier League? Obviously the quality of football is poorer - even Barry Ferguson would stand out as a football genius here - but there are moments of magic, just as there are Division 2 moments in the Premier League, albeit mostly from Paul McShane. The real thing is fitness. Division 2 players don't run as hard, as fast and as long. And they don't twist as supplely, if "supplely" is actually a word. Couldn't Division two train their players harder, or am I missing the point?
By the end of four added minutes I can't feel my feet, but the abused grandchild looks so nervous as Northampton pound down the slope and bombard the home goal and so I do feel strangely warm inside.