Peckforton Castle, for the uninitiated, is “Britain’s most unique medieval-style castle, set on a hillside above the rolling Cheshire Plain; a perfect location, inviting you to celebrate your special occasions within its magical, fortified walls”. On discovering my company had booked a meeting there for 9th January, I was ecstatic. Just 30 miles from Anfield, it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to take in the re-arranged Carling Quarter Final. To say the day didn’t go to plan is an understatement.

The problems started the previous week. On learning that Arsenal fans, unable to attend the re-arranged game, could return their tickets for refund I contacted our Box Office, only to learn that Arsenal had already returned unwanted tickets to Liverpool. No problem: I rang the Anfield Box Office – only for Liverpool to claim they hadn’t received them, and would not do so before match day. Arsenal continued to insist the tickets had been sent. I rang Liverpool Customer Services; sorry, no tickets and anyway they would be available on the day at the turnstiles just before kick-off. With a decent scouse impersonation I might have wangled a restricted-view Kop ticket, but frustratingly defeated by bureaucracy, I opted to take my chances with the turnstiles and be with fellow Gooners.

Problem two. Come the day before the game, I discover our meeting agenda has a 6.30pm session on Tuesday. I work for a humane company which tolerates many of my Arsenal-related excesses. With a match ticket I might have negotiated an agenda change; without a ticket, however, I was loath to compromise company team spirit and resigned myself to the inevitable. Anyway, I consoled myself, it was only the Carling Cup, and at least I could enjoy a medieval banquet, get radio updates or texts from daughter Marcia, who invariably comes up trumps on these occasions. With luck I might even catch the second half on TV. Another mistake; Peckforton’s advertising blurb fails to mention that communications at their medieval castle are, to put it bluntly, medieval. No satellite TV, appalling radio reception and mobile phone use requiring one to venture beyond the castle ramparts for anything approaching a reasonable signal.

Between courses I sneaked to my room, just in time to hear on my crackling tranny Baptista make it 5-1 to the Gunners. Our waiter, an Everton supporter, having found a soul mate in me, enthusiastically informed us of the final score as he served the dessert. I retired to my room and, unable to locate even TV highlights, retired to bed, frustrated but delighted for Arsène’s ‘kids’; at least I could crow over the newspapers at breakfast. Newspapers? You’re having a larf! The castle is so remote that no newspapers are delivered. I could not even drive to the local newsagent as my car was due for collection for MOT testing (don’t even ask). I did glimpse 30 seconds of highlights on breakfast TV, but basically had to wait for the afternoon and a relaxed 30 minutes Costa Coffee-fuelled read of Independent, Telegraph and Guardian reports at the M6 services. Once outside the castle walls I did belatedly receive Marcia’s texts, delivered out of sequence by Vodaphone; for example, Baptista bizarrely appearing to make it 4-1 just before Alliadière opened the scoring!

At last I arrived home and was able watch the even stranger reality on DVD, thoughtfully recorded by Natalie. I guess this proved reasonably cathartic, but I can’t help feeling that a totally unforeseeable combination of circumstances had combined to make me miss one of the experiences of a lifetime. And to make matters worse, were that possible, not a buxom serving wench in sight.