DIARY FROM DENMARK: Sorry for the perspiration - I should have gone to Specsavers
NOTHING quite gets your nerves on edge than hurtling at 100 miles an hour towards a destination you’ve never been to.
Getting to Vestsjaelland, or rather Slagelse, was rather more complicated than it had looked on Google.
For starters, there are a bewildering number of different tickets you can purchase. It isn’t just a case of single or return, first or second class – the screen presents you with a head-spinning number of decisions to make.
So after randomly stabbing at the touch screen and paying my money, I was fairly convinced I was armed with a ticket to take me to Slagelse.
And for those saying “typical bloke, he won’t ask for help,” you’re completely right. The thing is, I hate queuing, and the line for the information desk – comprised mainly of women – stretched most of the way around the station.
Next problem was to find out which train to get on. Simple – the internet had said to aim for Arhus. Only there was no train to Arhus.
Prompt a mad 15 minutes in which I had to read every single destination screen at Copenhagen Central, sweat now dripping profusely from my brow.
My salvation came when I spotted a Wanderers shirt. I skipped down the escalator and ran towards the person wearing it, only to find it wasn’t a Wanderers shirt at all. It was a Tottenham shirt.
Better book that appointment at Specsavers when I get back.
That isn’t the first time I have ended up in trouble by following what I thought was a Bolton fan. Heading to a Fulham match one day I followed someone for half a mile into the middle of some type of stately home until I realised the “Campo” shirt they were wearing was actually a Real Madrid kit.
Thankfully, the Arhus train had pulled into the next platform and though I arrived much too late to claim a seat, I did make it on time.
Now drenched in sweat and breathing like I’d completed a marathon, I only feel sorry for the person standing next to me on the train.
Oh, and it turns out that the ticket I bought had to be stamped at Copenhagen, so I also got told off by the conductor – in Danish – before reaching my destination.