how to get into a Premiership sell-out

I haven't been to a football match for ages, but I hear it's a whole new ball game. Europe's finest, Ruud Gullit, Dennis Bergkamp, David Ginola are here Juninho's just arrived and Cantona's back as well, but it's a pity I've already missed his first game.

But wait. Chelsea vs Manchester United, 21 October. Cantona against Gullit, Cantona against the Shed that was. I suppose I'd better book tickets then.

No standing around in rainy queues these days. I phone Chelsea FC to secure my seats only to receive the quickest red card of all time. The receptionist dispatches me in three deadly words: "Chelsea?... sold out."

I get on to credit-card bookings and pop the question again. This time there's a hopeful silence. Then, "Are you a member?" "Eh... No." "Well, I'm afraid it's sold out, sir." "Can I become a member?" I ask hopefully. But it turns out that the membership won't be processed in time for the match.

Time then, I think, to get down to the ground. Two phone calls have turned me into a man with a mission. To hell with bureaucracy. I'll just go down to Stamford Bridge and look them in the eyes. We'll see.

On the way to the ground I stop off at a ticket agency in Victoria. "Yes, we can get you a ticket, sir." This is more like it. "They'll be pounds 45 each." What? I think about this for a while before deciding that ticket agencies are immoral. But this shows that there are tickets to be had, if you're willing to sniff them out, so I ask him where he gets the tickets from. "Just blokes." "What kind of blokes?" "Blokes. They come in and sell 'em to you."

That's who I've got to look for then. Blokes. At Stamford Bridge, however, there is no sign of the unfairer sex. The girl at the box-office tells me I have to be a member to buy a ticket.

The fee for joining Chelsea Football Club turns out to be pounds 25. On top of pounds 20 for the match ticket, that would make pounds 45 for one match, assuming the membership process could be sped up. Strange thoughts begin to assail me. Perhaps this could go against me in the future. Maybe there's a shady list, something like a bad credit list, deep in the archives of the Home Office, with the names of Chelsea Football Club members. Better go off and look for some blokes.

I meet one outside the Chelsea souvenir shop, who points to the Cross Eyed Newt, a pub across the road. "Go in there on the Friday before the match and you might find someone with a spare ticket," he advises.

My next plan is to hover around the ground asking anyone I meet. They all point me towards the box-office. "No... no... You know what I mean. Have you got any tickets to sell? Black market." But no amount of nudging and winking seems to work.

I even check out the price of corporate boxes, pounds 200 per person and sold out for the Manchester United game.

With blokes and pounds 70 touts beginning to look like my only chink of opportunity, I skulk past the box-office again, checking once more on the price of members' tickets. Nothing has changed, and I move off into Saturday afternoon obscurity. Then I have one last desperate thought. I'll say that I'm researching ways of getting a Premiership ticket and ask for any ideas. I move back to the window and before I can get the words out of my mouth something incredible happens. With palpable pity in her eyes, the girl says, "How many did you want?" "Eh... Two!" I stutter. She puts her hand into a drawer and brings them out. "This is incredible," I can hear John Motson shouting. I give her the money and walk off, too shocked to even thank her. Neither do I wonder what the sold-out posters were about, because the tickets are in my clutches now. They are a visionary shade of blue with a Chelsea FC lion hologrammed into them.

So there you have it. Getting to see football is a matter of trying every angle. You've got to loiter, cajole and look around for blokes. But above all, don't let anyone tell you it's a sell-out.