The fan - Hunter Davies hires a chauffeur - well, taxi - for his match visits

I thought I'd solved the parking problem, but I ended up fuming again

That's it, I'm sorted; the rest of my life, however long or short, is now organised. All I have to do is get up each day, make it to the weekend, and, most important of all, stay alive. Something that has driven me mad for two decades is over. So I thought.

I have this friend, an architect with a young family, who went up to Old Trafford from London to cheer on Arsenal. Safe enough outing, as we all know the vast majority of Man Utd fans are well-behaved middle-classers living in Kent. He enjoyed the day, despite having to spend nine hours on the train. Nine hours! I couldn't believe it. Nine minutes and I'm frothing.

I've gone through life unable to wait. I see a queue, a one-way sign, a "wait here" signal, and I think, "Hmm, doesn't apply to me, it's for other folks", so I either ignore it or turn around.

So getting to football these days, either at Spurs or Arsenal, is increasingly pissing me off, having to go earlier and earlier in order to park. Public transport round here is useless. When I was a lad, there were no cars, no need for them in caves. In big cities, there were special buses laid on to take you to the game. Why don't they do that today? Or park and ride?

My posh Jaguar - well, not so posh now, as it's eight years old - is riddled with bashes and bumps with parking in stupid places. I'm not car proud. I just want to get there and back, sharpish. For the past five years, I've done car sharing, taking my turn with other fans. But the new and hellish parking restrictions have made it virtually impossible. You can pay £10 to park in a schoolyard, but they get full an hour before kick-off. Or find some dodgy kid in a baseball cap and hood who says he'll look after it for a fiver, then worry you'll never see the wheels again.

It really has depressed me, hanging over me each match day, taking the edge off my pleasures. Yes, I know it's pathetic. The whole family has said to me, often enough, oh diddums, is that the worst you have to worry about?

Then I had this brainwave. At both Arsenal and Spurs, there's this line-up of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys purring outside after every game, the uniformed chauffeur with the engine on, cocktail cabinet warming up, waiting for some fat bastard who probably doesn't know the offside trap from a prawn sandwich. I bet it's a company car, which he shouldn't be using. I wonder if the shareholders know? Hope someone gives it a good kicking.

What if I hired a modest minicab, a regular order, to take me there and back to every game? Couldn't cost much when shared. I rang round the local firms. Four said get lost, no chance, we don't do no football games. A new firm said, fine, no problem. They wanted my address, which I know, got it written in the front of my diary, and also the pick-up address. I hadn't thought that through. They needed it now, as it probably wouldn't be the same driver each way. I said Drayton Park railway station. I've noticed it's closed on match days, with lots of space outside.

I invited two of my Arsenal friends, this is on me squire, Hunt's treat, and one turned up with his daughter, home from Newcastle University. We left at 2.15pm, which was brilliant, about 45 minutes later than normal, so more time to have a proper lunch, a few drinks, watch the footer on Sky Plus. And it cost only £6. In future, we'll share. Miles cheaper than parking. Afterwards, we all raced to the pick-up point, thinking hurrah, home in time to watch the 5.15pm Sky game. No sign of the minicab. Instead, there was a monster line-up of West Brom supporters' coaches, with the police moving cars on.

I had my mobile phone with me, first time I've used it in a year, and got the minicab firm. The daft driver had gone right on to Highbury and was now stuck in traffic, unable to move. I arranged another rendezvous. He didn't turn up, or we missed him. We all had to walk home, which took two hours, what with the hanging around. God, was I spitting. The man who doesn't wait. And I'd let down my friends, and the daughter, after being so flash.

Well, that's it. The rest of my football-going life is obviously going to be much the same. Only worse.