Nottingham, 25 July, 2009
Off then to Notts County. This is actually good news. I'm tasked with writing about Sven-Goran Eriksson who, for reasons nobody claims to understand, has joined Notts County as director of football.
Every argument you can offer vis-a-vis the old fox's motives is counterable, even if counterable isn't a proper word. The money? He doesn't need it. The glory? Hardly. The lack of job offers elsewhere? He's Sven; he gets jobs. Nottingham? Come on. As my dear old dad never said to me, the most obvious explanation is usually the right one: perhaps he's genuinely up for the challenge.
County are playing Nottingham Forest, the big boys from across the Trent in a pre-season friendly. Great. It's sunny, the queues are massive and although I've been a few times (who could forget John Pratt's screamer for Tottenham in 1977-78?) I've never reported a game. Alas, Notts have caught little-club-in-big-story syndrome, so they're over officious and not quite up to the task (surly men with walkie talkies make sure we don't actually get to speak to Sven; this may not have happened in Jimmy Sirrel's day), but the press box is wi-fi less but spacious.
And speaking of not being up to the task, I've forgotten a laptop lead, so I'm on battery power, which really means writing notes and then tapping them in, ensuring I've enough power to transmit via mobile. I am, in its truest sense, a berk.
No matter. This wouldn't have stopped Henry Wickham Steed and it won't stop me, but the darkened screen is a bit hard to make out. Anyway, I don't have to study the game, just keep an eye on Sven in the directors' box and watch how Notts play (not to say I didn't notice Forest ambling around like it was a pre-season friendly).
As it is, they're well-organised - this, obviously is down to manager-for-now Ian McParland rather than cuddly Svennis - and ever so quick. They deserve to win and do 2-1. Sven stays to the end, shakes hands with some startled Notts folk and is driven home by his giant chauffeur.
I haven't gone native with the old non-tech ways, but I have conserved my battery successfully so that's no worry. I've talked to McParland - he knows why we're here, but we're all adults - on the side of the pitch because the room which started out as the press room (tea but no milk, etc, etc) is now the players' lounge. Yet another man with a walkie talkie - think mumps but less friendly - escorts me from the building and my day is done. It doesn't really feel like football's back. At all.

Playing today: The Stranglers, Bear Cage. "Drawing lines on a map just to show I'm there". Self-pity as art. Hurrah. And it's my favourite song about East Germany. And while we're at it, can't someone write a proper joint biography of Walter Ulbricht and Erich Honecker? No. Oh well. Just a thought.