Our Day Out in Chesterfield

After a gruelling day of PE placement at a Primary School just out of Sheffield which involved a Nazi regime of speed and agility tasks, running around cones, and jumping over hurdels, as well as the obligatory "bomb" game where 40 children lobbed basketballs at our heads, we (being myself and 8 other friends) decided we needed a drink outside of our usual haunts in Sheffield.

Seeing as matt lives in the spiffing town of Chesterfield, known for it's pubs and twisted spire, it seemed as good a location as any.

After arriving we were given two options by our tour guide (matthew) as to whether to stay in the city centre and bum around in the pubs there, or to take the trek out to a miles worth of pubs in the outskirts.
We, rather unsurprisingly, opted for the mile of pubs and after checking train times, decided we would be getting the 10:53 train back to Sheffield as the next one at 1:08 seemed a little late, even for us youthful students.

And so began our little pub hop down the road. To be fair, rather than it being a miles worth of pubs, it was rather a pub, and then a mile, followed by another pub. By the time we had reached the next safe alcoholic haven, we were frozen and desperate for a drink. However the company, as always, was fantastic and we consumed large quantities of the home made cider called Old Rosie which can only be described as a pints worth of blackout.

Of course, after the alcohol consumption, a trip to KFC is mandatory. And whilst our tour guide made a trip to the local Pizza kebbaby, we waited for our snack boxes. Unfortunately, what we didn't realise was that our tour guide had made his way back to the station promptly for 10:30. We were still miles away, popcorn chickenless and clueless as to the way back.

And so began the sprint of my life. Now, I am hardly lithe and athletic. my snackbox full of chicken held me back both physically and metaphorically and I managed about a 1 minute sprint before I had to admit defeat and wave my friends onwards.

Three friends had remained behind in KFC waiting for their food, and it was only as Paul began to catch up with me that I really realised that I could truly be stuck in Chesterfield until a very late, and very cold ten past one in the morning. What happened next can hardly be described. I believe it had something to do with downhill slope and the inner athlete inside me, but my future of sitting on a cold, hard, train bench, looking like a homeless bum, clutching my empty box of greasy chicken and hiccuping with the Old Rosie remaining in my system, had never seemed so horrendous.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the train entering the station at about a gazillion miles an hour. Paul had already got to the station and collapsed in a heap on the station floor, and my friends who had already arrived were anxiously phoning me and cheering me on. In a final spurt, I rounded the corner, ran through the doors to my cheering fans, and leapt onto the train, seconds before it pulled out, leaving two friends behind on the platform.

Now what should have happened as I came onto the platform should have been this:


Unfortunately, it was more like this, only less sexy as I was wearing a big blue woolly jacket:


moral of the story? Big blue woolly jackets are bad for your health.

Oh, and poor Dan and Chris had to wait until 10 past 1. They should have run faster I feel. :)