I like to write pure fiction, that is pure invention from start to finish. I'm not keen on 'fiction' that is basically a thinly disguised account of a divorce or childhood or the death of a loved one or whatever. Humour always lurks somewhere in my stories -  smiling makes me feel good and that's why I write.

Jim stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, his head bobbing from side to side as he desperately tried to see the front of the queue. It snaked along the pavement, across the directors’ car park, past the hallowed ground of the players’ entrance and into the ticket office next to the supporters’ shop.

He could just see a steady trickle of happy fans emerging from the ‘out’ door. Some had their heads down, scurrying past with wallets and bags clutched in a vice-like grip, others openly gloating and waving their spoils in the air for all to see. Jim had been getting bad vibes in the last few minutes and his worst fears were suddenly confirmed when a loud groan from those at the front turned into shouts as, like a Mexican Wave, the cry of ‘sold out’ sped the length of the queue in seconds.

Complaining loudly, Jim turned and glared angrily at anyone near him who made eye contact, others did the same, unsure how to vent their anger after standing in the rain for three hours for nothing. The queue broke up and surged forward, not wanting to believe their fate until they had seen with their own eyes the locked doors.

‘SEA-SON TICKETS, SEA-SON TICKETS’, the chant went up, louder and louder, faster and faster. After a bit, a nervous looking man in a suit emerged and tried to make some sort of a speech as to how sorry he was but there were no more tickets. He soon lost interest and ducked back inside as a hail of lager and coke cans accompanied by various insults concerning his parents rained down upon him.

Unable to locate his mate, Tom, in the crowd, Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and sidled over to a clutch of men surrounding a ticket tout, a short fat man with a pencil stuck behind one ear. He continually rubbed his hands together as he talked.  It didn’t take Jim long to discover the price was daylight robbery, even if he could pay it he wouldn’t, so kicking a Special Brew can with as much venom as he could muster, he retrieved his bike from the park railings and rode home.

Sandra was in the garden chatting over the garden fence so Jim slumped in front of the television to wait for his dinner. Fancying a cigarette and too tired to look for his own he reached for Sandra’s handbag and fished about without success, instead pulling out an envelope, the contents of which slid out and onto his lap. His jaw dropped as the words in block capitals stared up at him.

ALBOX UNITED – 2006/2007 SEASON - FAIRFORD ROAD STAND – ROW 78 – SEAT 23F’.

Jim sat transfixed, the questions piling up in his mind twice as fast as he could answer them.  He jumped as Sandra’s voice cut through his confusion, close to his ear.

‘What do you think you are doing, going through my bag?’ she said, her voice like silky steel.

‘I was looking for a fag.’ said Jim without looking up, unable to take his eyes off the green and white piece of card in his hand, tastefully designed in team colours this year he noted.

‘That doesn’t look like a cigarette to me, it looks more like my season ticket which I will have back thank you.’ Sandra gently removed bag and ticket from his grasp and put them in the bottom of the sideboard, her own little space and ‘out of bounds’ to the rest of the family.

‘Where did you get that Sandra?  I need it and you don’t so I think you should give it to me, it’s only fair.’ As was usual at times of stress, Jim’s mouth started long before his brain was ready.

‘Don’t talk rubbish Jim, it’s mine and I’ll do what I like with it and I fancy going to watch the games,’ Sandra retorted unmoved, ‘ If you must know I bought them from a couple who had to move South because of his job, and at face value!’

‘That’s selfish of you Sandra, putting yourself first like that, it’s not the sort of thing I would do to you!’

She stood over him and leaned forward, their noses almost touching, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed.  He had unwittingly touched a sore spot and was about to reap the benefit of her memory.

‘Do you remember a year ago, we agreed to buy me a season ticket too so we could go to the matches together, have a common interest to share, the happy couple, do you remember, do you?’ 

Jim said nothing but did a little mental squirming. He remembered all right and had forlornly hoped she had forgotten.

‘A week before the first match of the season you found out your pal Tom didn’t have one, so you sold him mine,’ Sandra’s voice rose steadily in volume and pitch, ‘Actually forgetting to mention it to me until after the event, would you call that selfish?  Anyway you can get your own, you always do!’

‘Couldn’t’ he said, hanging his head, ‘I queued all afternoon for nothing, sold out, none left, all gone.  It’s the first time I …’   Looking up he found he was talking to himself; Sandra was in the kitchen humming the ‘Match of the Day’ theme as she basted the chicken.

That evening Jim caught up with Tom at the bar in the Railway Hotel. Sitting together with pint in hand they watched Sandra and Tom’s wife, Angie playing darts, practicing for the next league match. Tom listened in silence as Jim told his hard luck story; no detail spared as to just how lousy his day had been from his rotten football club to his selfish wife.

‘If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you you’re wasting your breath,’ Tom replied, finally able to get a word in. ‘ I couldn’t get a ticket either. If they didn’t give away so many to the players and bloody sponsors there might have been some left for us. Anyway, it’s worse than you think, Sandra got hold of two tickets, she sold the other one to Angie, now how do you feel?’

Jim actually felt worse and grumbled on about it, taking turns with Tom as to how unfair it was and ‘after all they had done for their wives’ to be treated like this, faithful supporters without a ticket. Tracy the barmaid had been listening to the conversation with growing impatience and could stay silent no longer.

‘Why don’t you just buy tickets on the day like ordinary mortals, you can get tickets to most of the games, what’s so important about a season ticket?’

‘Sure we can,’ Tom explained sagely, ‘but if you’re a season ticket holder, well, you’re a season ticket holder. It gives you a certain standing in the community, with your workmates and neighbours, you’re seen to be a true supporter, without one you’re nobody!’  Tom nodded sadly. 

‘Jim, I thought you always got your and Tom’s tickets from your pal on the turnstile,’ Tracy persisted, ‘you know, the one who’s son plays for the reserves.’ She tried to keep a straight face because she already knew the answer.

‘Ha!’ Tom exclaimed, turning on his mate, ‘Could it possibly be because on one dark night with nothing to do, we went to watch the reserves and the aforementioned player missed a sitter to win the match.’  He gave Tom a withering stare. ‘Someone who had drunk too much heckled the player for every second of the last ten minutes of the game whilst sitting three seats below aforementioned players father!’ 

The pals settled into a glum silence, their self-pity enhanced by the laughter from their wives who were enjoying a game with two young locals. Tracy felt a bit sorry for them and decided to cheer them up; after all it was her job to keep the customers happy.

‘Isn’t it birthday time for you two soon, didn’t you have a dual party here last year about now?’

‘Eighteenth and twenty second of August,’ Jim nodded in agreement, ‘This year mine happens to be on the first game of the season, so what?’

‘Well think about it’, Tracy leaned forward lowering her voice, resting her ample bosom on the bar.  ‘Two wives with season tickets, two husbands without season tickets, two birthdays coming up. Do you see a pattern emerging?’

Jim and Tom looked at each other, their blank expressions slowly changing into a meaningful smile and then laughter. As one they turned and kissed her on each cheek and with fresh pints happily joined their flirting wives.

The next few weeks went quickly for Jim, mainly because he was so happy and busy. The ‘job list’ on the wall in the kitchen was eagerly ticked off, all the repairs and maintenance he had been putting off for months completed with relish. He whistled so much it began to get on Sandra’s nerves but she was careful not to mention it in case it slowed production. Not once did Tom mention the word ‘ticket’ although he did think about it a lot.

Finally the day came. It was a Saturday and one by one the family drifted by with cards and presents. Tom murmured his thanks as he sat behind a pile of aftershave and socks but there was only one present he was really interested in. Sandra gave him her presents one by one.  An electric drill, a Tom Jones CD and an envelope.

Briefly admiring the drill and CD, he pushed them aside and with trembling hands opened the envelope, triumphantly pulling out a £25 Gardening Centre Voucher. He looked up as Sandra gave him a kiss on his forehead.

‘Have a nice afternoon love, I’m off to the match with Angie.’