You can call me a snob if you like. You can even say I’ve changed. And you’d be absolutely right. Because ever since Sonia and I got together, I’ve become fully accustomed to the luxurious freedom of simply jumping in the car whenever we need to go anywhere, and somewhere along the way, I’ve developed a deep, instinctive dislike of public transport. The kind of dislike usually reserved for potholes, Black Country roadworks, and mainstream politics.

Yet there we were Sunday afternoon, in an Uber, making our way to Wolverhampton train station in order to catch the dreaded Metro to Birmingham so that Sonia didn’t have to drive, and could therefore enjoy a drink or four instead.

Now, there are four things in particular that spring to mind whenever I think of this journey from Hell. The four horsemen of the public‑transport apocalypse if you like.

Firstly there’s the uncomfortable seats. Seats so rigid and unforgiving they feel like they were designed by someone who once lost a fight with a cast iron bench and swore revenge.

Then there’s the tinny soundtrack of someone else’s shite taste in music leaking through cheap headphones, because nothing says “relaxing journey” like being force‑fed distorted drum and bass at three in the afternoon.

Next we have the non-stop jabberer. That one person who boards the tram already mid‑sentence and doesn’t stop talking for the entirety of their journey. But worst of all… and I mean worst of all, we have the deodorant dodger. The very horseman we had to contend with again on Sunday.

We’ve all encountered them. The one’s who’ve clearly run out of deodorant but have decided to bravely soldier on until they get their Lynx Africa gift set at Christmas, despite it only being June. And naturally, this is the very passenger who chooses to stand directly in front of your seat, arm raised high like they’re saluting the gods of BO, gripping the overhead bar for the entire journey while you sit there inhaling their rancid fumes. For Christ’s sake man, even Poundland sell shower gel and deodorant these days you know? It’s not a luxury item. It’s not a rare import. It’s literally a quid.

Honestly, it made that 53 minute journey feel more like 3 hours. 3 sickly, stomach churning, try not to breath in, God forsaken hours, and we couldn’t wait to get off.

What a joy it was to see the doors of our chosen pub for the afternoon directly opposite our closest escape route as we pulled into our stop, allowing us disembark and leave the stench well and truly behind us. Even if it was the doors of a Wetherspoons.

I guess it’s fair to say, but I’ve never found a single reason to rave about any Spoon’s pub I’ve ever set foot in. Not one. In fact, whenever the topic comes up, you can guarantee I’ll trot out with the same old classics: “You know exactly what you’re getting” and “They’re equally as shite whichever one you go in.” That’s an absolute given.

But Sunday was different. Somehow, and I still don’t understand how, The Figure of Eight in Birmingham city centre managed to serve a pint of Guinness that was actually palatable. Not exactly “Michelin‑starred”, but definitely not the usual “black sludge” either.

Our food arrived hot, which in Spoons standards is a miracle worthy of a commemorative plaque. Or as Sonia put it, “Edible, not incredible.” High praise indeed. And she even treated herself to a couple of glasses of the finest Italian sparkling wine that this low‑budget establishment has to offer. And she quite enjoyed it too.

Honestly, as far as a visit to a Spoons goes, this one was practically a luxury experience.

It was whilst we were in Spoons, and while Sonia was off freshening herself up in the Ladies boudoir, that she overheard two elderly ladies chatting away about the evening’s upcoming performance of Les Mis, with full emotional investment, and how disappointed they’d be if it turned out to be “just the music” and not the entire West End theatre production. Bless them.

Sorry ladies, I truly hope you weren’t too devastated… but did you not see the posters? The flyers? Did you not glance at a single pre or post performance review? Or even the information provided before purchasing your tickets?

Just a thought for next time. But maybe give the advertising a quick once-over beforehand.

I’d already had my fifth pint when we decided to leave Spoons a good hour before show‑time and make our way to the venue along the canal tow‑path. Partly so we could enjoy the scenery, but mostly so I could rest along the way and give my knackered old legs a fighting chance of surviving at least part of the night.

Then there was the unplanned plan to stop off at The Malt House for a cheeky pint on the way. A civilised idea. An hopeful idea. An idea that lasted approximately four seconds as we entered the bar. Because when we got there, the place was absolutely heaving with people who clearly believed they were far superior than the afore mentioned Spoons clientele. You know the type, the ones who swirl their drinks round like they’re judging a prestige wine competition, despite them holding a pint of Carling at the time.

There they were, three long, perfectly straight lines of middle‑aged theatre going coffin‑dodgers, queued up at the bar like they were waiting to collect their pensions from the Post Office counter.

Honestly, when did that become a thing? Organised queues at the bar. Who started this madness? Who decided that the British bar etiquette, that sacred art of strategic hovering needed to be replaced with such nonsense?

What happened to the good old days of waving your banknote between two other desperate souls doing exactly the same thing, all of you silently praying the bar staff would remember who was next? And what happened to that noble moment when the bloke beside you would nod and say, “He’s before me, mate,” like some kind of pint‑ordering knight of the realm?

That was tradition. That was culture. That was the unwritten constitution of the Great British pub. Now everyone forms queues. Regimented lines like its 1943 and they’re collecting their rations. The world’s gone mad. Absolutely mad.

Luckily for us though, the Utilita Arena is literally within touching distance of The Malt, so close in fact, you could probably lob a beer mat at it and hit a security guard. So a short saunter over the canal bridge and we were there.

While Sonia stood chatting away to a member of staff about where the Accessible entrance was, because she handles these things like a calm, organised adult, I perched myself on the bridge wall like some sort of exhausted canal‑side gargoyle. Partly to rest my knackered legs again, but mainly to distract myself from the fact that by now, those 5 pints of Guinness had worked their magic, and I was now desperate for the toilet. Not the “could go soon” kind of desperate either, but the “must wee now” kind of desperate.

There I was, trying to look all casual and composed, when in reality I was literally just seconds away from a warm, wet, embarrassing disaster.

And honestly, why do venues insist on putting the Accessible entrance as far away as humanly possible? Always round the back, past the bins, behind a skip, and next to a door marked “Staff Only”. It’s like they’ve mistaken disabled access for an army grade assault course.

So you follow the staff instructions, and suddenly you’re on a pilgrimage. A three‑mile hike round the perimeter of the building, past the smokers, past the delivery vans, past a man in a hi‑vis jacket who takes his job way too seriously, and by the time you reach the correct door, you just wanna go back home again. But at least we didn’t have to queue. Small mercies I guess. We were finally in, and without a second thought, I made a beeline for the nearest loo. Sweet, glorious relief at last.

I do actually quite like the Utilita as a venue if I’m honest. It’s spacious enough that you don’t feel like you’re crammed in like a pack of battery hens, it’s not too warm, and the staff are always nice and friendly, the sort of people who smile at you even when you’re clearly in the wrong. The seats aren’t too uncomfortable either, which is a miracle considering they offer roughly the same amount of leg room as a Ryanair flight. Not ideal when your knees are held together with nothing more than hope and deep heat.

But I’ve been to worse venues over the years, believe me. At least this one has seats. Actual seats. Not “a bit of wall you can lean on if you’re lucky”. And Sonia, being the sensible one in this marriage, booked the end two seats in the row so I could at least stretch one of my legs out as and when I needed to.

The only bugbear then however, was the constant standing up every time someone else wanted to get in or out of the row. Up, down, up, down, like we were doing some sort of physio‑approved squat routine. And the cheek of them. How very dare they want to access to the seats they’ve paid for. Honestly, the audacity of some people.

While I shuffled about trying to make myself as comfortable as possible and did the obligatory Facebook check‑in. You know, just to prove to friends and family that we can do civilised things when we feel like it, and that not every outing involves shots, a death‑metal soundtrack, and a mosh pit, Sonia headed off to the bar. No hesitation. No fear. No mercy… And no Guinness!

I already knew from bitter experience that I was destined to end up drinking tepid cider from a tin can. And not the good stuff either. But cider that’s never been within sniffing distance of an actual apple throughout it’s entire process. And of course, that’s exactly what Sonia brought back. Because the only other options were lager, lager, or lager, and I’m not quite that desperate. Not yet anyway.

She also brought herself a couple of cheeky Rosés back, the sort that promise sophistication but taste like the inside of a toilet pan. They definitely weren’t as enjoyable as the Italian wine she’d been sipping earlier, but to be fair, I did gently remind her that she was now drinking cheap, overpriced wine out of a can, and from a plastic cup, but that didn’t really help.

Now on a serious note however, and I can be serious sometimes. I’m quite an emotional bloke when it comes to music, because music can be a powerful thing. I also don’t mind saying that music sometimes makes me cry, especially when a song means something personal to me or reminds me of a certain time in my life. And I knew for definite that one song in particular was going to make me cry during Sundays show, because it always does, even when I watch Les Misérables the movie I have to wipe away the tears. But what I didn’t expect, was for the whole show to effect me the way it did.

Not just the songs, but the whole show. The live orchestra. The amazing cast. The stage show. The lighting. The overall atmosphere. It was the very first time I’d witnessed a show like this, and it literally blew my mind.

The beautiful angelic voices of Samantha Barks (as Fantine), Beatrice Penny-Touré (as Cosette), and Shan Ako (as Éponine). The power house vocals of Killian Donnely (as Jean Val Jean) and Jeremy Secomb (as Javert). And the funny and humorous, but perfectly cast ramblings of Matt Lucas (as Monsieur Thénardier) and Helen Walsh (as Madam Thénardier), took everyone on an emotional roller coaster. Quite possibly me more than most, and I was kind of glad when the interval arrived and I was able to give me head a bit of a wobble and come back to my senses a little.

During the interval, it was genuinely good to see fellow Saddlers supporter and friend of mine Kev Paddock, along with his other half, Rico. We’d already discovered via the socials that we were both in attendance. And by some miracle, we weren’t sat that far apart. Practically neighbours in fact.

We even managed to have a little chat without leaving our seats, which was impressive considering the acoustics, the crowd, and the fact that everyone else between us clearly thought we were personally ruining their evening. The looks we got. But hey ho. Needs must. Saddlers solidarity waits for no man.

We had a quick chat and arranged to meet at The Alchemist after the show for a couple of cocktails to end the night (see, sophistication again), despite the fact that Kev and Rico had already been there before the show, and before we knew it, we were being herded back to our seats by a member of staff who, according to some woman earlier, reminded her of Spandau Ballet’s Martin Kemp.

Martin Kemp? Honestly? He looked more like Ross Kemp, if Ross Kemp had lost a fight with a tumble dryer, and someone had plonked a short grey wig on his head as an apology. And even then, only if you squinted. After ten pints, and from the opposite side of the Arena. Through a thick fog. Martin Kemp… who was she trying to kid?

As the house lights went down once more and the stage lights came up, the orchestra and conductor took to their feet in unison so as to accept their well deserved and very appreciated applause, before taking their seats once more to play in the beginning of Act II.

And as the cast took to the stage again, I knew it was still yet to come. The one song that would have me holding back the tears (if that was possible). That one song that pulls at my heart strings and holds me to an emotional ransom every time I hear it… On My Own, the song which was delivered beautifully and flawlessly by Shan Ako, though I can’t help but feel Samantha Barks version does the song just that little more justice… But that’s just my personal opinion.

Right now, I should also pay credit to whoever designed and operated both the lighting and screen video editing for the show as well, without which, it just wouldn’t have been the same. The lighting was absolutely phenomenal. Laser beams of bright white strobe lighting shooting in all directions around the arena to imitate the gunfire of the Charleville muskets, whilst the stage was drenched in red to depict the bloodshed. Then a bright, vale like blinding white light to capsulate the dying breath of key characters, as the screens either side of the stage slowly faded their image into darkness, as if they really were leaving this world behind. Absolutely exceptional.

The whole production from start to finish was nothing short of outstanding and a pleasure to see in person. You’d have expected nothing more than a long and well deserved standing ovation and a thunderous applause as the cast took to the stage to take their bows, and that’s exactly what they got. It truly was a magical night.

I was still feeling a bit overwhelmed and emotional as we stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air, with our sights firmly set on The Alchemist just a short distance away. I was already mentally preparing myself for their menu of mouth-watering, eye‑watering, wallet‑draining cocktails. Proper sophistication. The sort of drinks that come with a straw, smoke, and dry ice, but also with a sense of financial regret.

But at least we managed to find an entrance with a lift. A lift. A glorious, mechanical chariot sent from the heavens to save me from having to trudge slowly and cautiously up that steep set of stairs leading to the bar, the ones specifically designed to test your knees, your balance, and your will to live. Honestly, if I’d had to climb them, they’d have closed the bar by time I got up there.

When we did get in there however, the place was absolutely dead. I’m talking biblically empty. Sort of Tumbleweed’s‑rolling‑across‑the‑floor level of dead. There were maybe five or six other people scattered about, but as for Kev and Rico? Not a trace. Not even a faint distant echo of a Saddlers chant. But honestly, I half expected not to see them. They’d already been in there pre‑show, and probably rinsed the cocktail menu dry. No, they’d decided to head into the city instead, and why not? Fair play to them.

Didn’t stop us though, we settled in and enjoyed a couple of drinks before heading home. In my case, a Dead Red Zombie, complete with a free shot, followed by a classic Smokey Old Fashioned. Whilst Sonia went full on e-numbers with a Screwball, followed by a Cherry Bomb. Cocktails that taste like old fashioned childhood sweets, but cost the same as a small mortgage at today’s rates.

After checking the tram times back to Wolverhampton, we discovered we were just about to miss one as we rounded the corner in search of the tram stop. Classic. You could set your watch by our luck. But it didn’t matter, there was another tram due in 35 minutes, which meant we didn’t have to rush, and gave me ample time to perch myself on a low wall like a wounded pigeon in order to rest again. My legs and back were absolutely done. Finished. Retired. They’d clocked off for the night and left me with only a scribbled note wishing me luck.

I needed strong pain relief and quick. Preferably something non-alcoholic that didn’t come in a can or a plastic cup, and hopefully didn’t cost £17.50.

It was while we sat on that wall that I jokingly commented that we could’ve done with the previous tram being delayed by ten minutes. Just ten. That’s all. Enough for us to catch it and feel like the universe was, for once, on our side. But things like that don’t happen to us. Oh no. We don’t get convenient delays. We don’t get lucky timing. We get the sort of luck where there’s more chance of the next tram being cancelled entirely and us having to fork out £30 in taxi fares… But… But.

As we walked up to the tram stop, there it was, glowing in bright orange LED glory like some sort of divine message from the Transport Gods themselves: Next Tram – Wolverhampton – 2 minutes.

No word of a lie, the delay I’d joked about literally two minutes earlier wasn’t just a long shot… it wasn’t even a 1‑in‑a‑million miracle. It was a 1‑in‑“don’t be ridiculous, that’ll never happen to us”. And yet there it was, that beautiful bright orange LED announcement.

We were still laughing about it when we heard the bell of the approaching tram, as it came gliding around the bend and pulled up at our stop as if it had personally felt the pain and agony I was in and thought, “Go on then lad, I’ll throw you a bone.”

Thankfully, the trip back to Wolverhampton was a peaceful and non‑eventful one, which, given our usual luck, felt deeply suspicious. There was no one talking. There was no tinny music leaking out of someone’s headphones like a dying mosquito. And not a single whiff of anyone else’s armpits. A true Metro rarity in itself. Just those hard, uncomfortable, unforgiving seats, and before we knew it, we were pulling into Wolverhampton and ordering our Uber home.

It had been a long, painful, expensive day. One full of emotion. Well, for me at least. But what a day it was… And would we do it all again? You can bet your life we would… No, You can bet your life we will. It’s what we do.