Premier League Season Ticket Holders on their Favourite Stadium Eccentrics

There are certain facets of British life so certain, so immutable, that they lurk somewhere on the midway point between "time honoured institution" and "oppressive inevitability". You know the tropes – pissing rain, dreadful teeth, emotional constipation and so on.

And, now that it's that time of year again for another one of our constants: football. The Championship may have kicked off last week – and the Scottish leagues too – but this weekend marks the return of the Premier League, the most entertaining, bloated show in the country.

We hear enough about the players and managers and their millions, so I got in touch with a few die-hard season ticket holders from various clubs to ask about their pre-match rituals and the bizarre characters they've come to know after climbing to their regular seats for years.

I'll meet my dad in the pub, same as always. He'll get the beers in and we'll walk to the ground. Then that feeling; the heady combination of falling in love and being unbelievably desperate for a shit. We'll chat to the lads around us, I'll message updates to my brother and my mate Lucy. "Aberdeen Mick" will arrive. In the first five minutes he'll get so angry, he'll go purple and emit the strangled scream of a man who is one Joe Hart fuck-up away from a spectacular death.

After that it's the turn of Pissy Pants. He's the kid at the far end of our row who goes to the toilet about 15 times a match, but we think actually just loiters in the stairwell. Then for 90 minutes, I'll sing, swear and mentally run through my ancient CPR training should the perpetual shiteness of Raheem Sterling tip Aberdeen Mick over the edge.

Then it's back to the pub for one final pint before Dad says "'sup up lass, you've got to get home".

It starts from the moment I wake up, depending on the level of my hangover. Read the Twitter abuse, speculation and injury updates, stick on Soccer AM. Once I've seen enough Arsène bashing for one day, I'll head out and meet my mates for a few pints before an inevitable Holloway Road McDonald's.

Have you seen a price of a burger at Arsenal? My season ticket renewal (£1,453) doesn't leave much in the tank for Emirates fine dining. It's just the usual stuff really; grab a programme from the po-faced bloke at the kiosk, shoot the shit with my mates a bit more.

But it's never complete unless I see my two favourite fans at the ground, about three rows in front of me: two elderly ladies firmly in their 70s. I don't know their names, or anything about them other than what I can see. They're complete legends: matching red parkas, matching white hair, matching cups of tea and clearly matching love for the Arsenal. It fills me with joy to see them supporting the team like they do. I can only wish I've still got that enthusiasm when I'm their age.

Dad and I have had season tickets down the Albion for about eight years. When you sit in the same seats every week you notice the familiar characters – there's a pair of young brothers behind me that I've basically watched grow up over the past few years. They could barely pronounce Odemwingie at first, and last year against Villa they got told off by their dad for chanting "you're fucking shit" – duly changed to "you're bloody shit".

There's a big bald bloke a few rows behind who honestly gets so apoplectic you wonder why he bothers coming down. I'm pretty sure he's going to burst a blood vessel one of these days, screaming "FUCKS SAKE, BRUNT" at the top of his lungs.

Then there's "the Vicar", who started coming to games in full regalia about five years ago. He has this makeshift cardboard megaphone, which he's modified over time – it's painted blue and white (now with added lightbulb) – and he stands in the aisle and tries to get new chants going before he's told to sit back down. He started the Gareth McAuley chant to the tune of the Heartbeat theme song a few years back, which the whole ground sings now, but none of his other attempts have been very successful. I don't think anyone has any idea why he does it, least of all him.

Every single home game, without fail, just outside the match day exit at Fulham broadway station, there's a man with a megaphone preaching. What's great about this guy is that he's adapted his preaching to shoehorn in football references. He's nothing if not a populist. So he'll talk about God giving a red card for example, or smiting down the away team. Not sure how much this adaptation has worked as a recruiting sergeant for God, but I admire the dedication, seeing him plugging away to minimal success game after game, season after season.

I have actually seen him outside Wembley before a cup final before, so I'm not sure it's even just Chelsea that he proselytises for. I thought you weren't meant to worship other gods? In truth, he's become as much a part of my match day routine as a flat lager of beer in a plastic cup. You never know, perhaps if more of us had listened to him we could have had enlisted some divine intervention to help us last season.

@frandgarcia1

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