A Week at The Times

A few months ago, I won a Cornflakes packet competition for a week’s work experience on The Times sports desk and, if you believed that, you’re truly an idiot. Some serious CV-submitting and e-mail monitoring was required and, even then, being the week after Easter, Jesus had lost me a day with his revival heroics. Four days, then, at the finest newspaper in the world, but they were four of the best days I’ll ever have.

For such a budget institution, the Travelodge Tower Hill offered tremendous entertainment. Propped up the hotel bar on the first night (what else does one do when they’re alone in a strange city?) I was privy to some rather disturbing events which the receptionist assured me were ‘normal’ in London. Two guests had evidently ‘ordered’ some of Whitechapel’s finest ladies of the night, but had then retreated to the sanctuary of their rooms to avoid embarrassment and ensure privacy. The whores, whose IQ could be measured by the digits on one hand, proceeded to obliterate this confidentiality by storming around the reception shouting in their vile Cockney drawl. Mercifully, by the time my fourth Carlsberg had been sunk they had been extracted from the family hotel by the Met. Despite the alcohol, they strangely didn’t grow any more attractive...

Fresh from a productive first day watching Sky Sports News and the wire services – oh, and writing articles for the Timesonline website – I met with messers (mess being an appropriate term) Harrow, Clarke and Bowen-la Grange at the famous Brick Lane curry mile. Having been seduced by the very first establishment we stumbled upon, the four of us surveyed the extensive menu having secured a good, negotiated meal deal. The choice was wonderful, containing all the traditional curry favourites plus some imaginative creations exclusive to the establishment. Superb choice of Indian cuisine. “I think I’ll just have an omelette,” piped up Arran. I was tempted to introduce my naan bread violently to his oesophagus.

Friday was the best day of the week, getting out the office to accompany the frankly brilliant Nick Szczepanik, the veteran football correspondent, to a Chelsea press conference. Stamford Bridge, that’s easy: district line through to Fulham Broadway. Oh, how wrong I was! Apparently they like to have training on a Friday for some reason, which meant District line to Earl’s Court, being told all tube trains were subsequently cancelled, getting a taxi to West Brompton, one of those Overground underground trains to Clapham Junction, a bewildering rendez-vous with Nick at the monstrous Clapham Junction, then British Rail to Cobham. It wasn’t so much a journey but, after three-and-a-half hours in the pouring rain, a rite of passage. Welcome to London. How the hell do the tourists cope?

Chelsea’s training facility was state-of-the-art, as you would expect given Abramovich’s (ever-dwindling) billions but, while Lampard, Terry and company glide to the glass-façaded entrance in their Bentleys and Porsches, the poor journos must trek, almost cross-country, down some god-forsaken, mud-encrusted, dark track while academy players boot footballs at them from adjacent pitches. You would have thought, for all our efforts, Guus Hiddink and Michael Essien, who was never going to be the most eloquent footballer, might have given just one worthwhile muttering. To be within touching distance of the Chelsea manager and player was a nice experience, however, despite their pointless comments.

Friday night, my final evening, was spent in the decadent surroundings of Putney: decadent as in £4 pint of Peroni decadent. Having been well-prepped by Huw and Will on the problems with taking night bus services, I had conveniently concluded to steer well clear but, with this not being my finest day with transport, another tube failure necessitated their use. Well, the next hour was exceedingly interesting to say the least. Inebriated Londoners of all nationalities shoehorned themselves onto the double-decker, conversing in a multitude of languages at various volumes as we weaved our way around the sights of Central London. Fuck the tour bus, take the night bus!

The week had been superb, exceeding all expectations. Given your usual preconceptions of work experience the watershed moment came on the first afternoon, when I was made a cup of tea (!) and things just got better and better. To have your name published on the Times website was also a tremendous honour, as well as great CV fodder. In the unlikely event you ever read this blog: Ben, Frank, Neil, Tim and Rob, who make Times Online Sport happen, take a bow. Enjoy your beers!