I hadn't initially done anything wrong. I just wanted out. I was sick of my everyday movements being tracked and monitored – from the moment my alarm rang on my mobile phone to wake me in the morning I was a piece of information being digested, processed and logged. This was my motivation, this was why I needed to truly set myself free, and this is why I set myself on the path that took a twisted route that I couldn't envisage.

1st November.
A Saturday – and even better – a Saturday without work. My alarm rings on my mobile, but I'm already awake as my internal clock has been programmed by years of mostly seven day working weeks. My mind still decides to wake on the mornings that don't have any major plans or a rushed schedule, so I never feel the benefit on the mornings I don't have to rush to work. Still, the comfort of waking and not having to immediately leap from bed is one that never gets boring.

The subdued morning light forces it's way through the cracks in the wooden blinds that cover my bedroom windows, and I can hear a familiar light drizzle outside. Without even leaving the shadowy room, I'm fully aware of how drab the day will be. Whilst that's perfectly normal at this time of year, we had so little bright weather this summer it feels as though everyone I know has fallen into a mild depression – especially since the clocks moved back two weeks ago.

My mattress is never as comfortable as it could be so it's never a huge temptation to lay in and waste the morning, but it still takes some effort to swing myself into a sitting position at the side of the bed. I leave my room and move into the dry heat of the hallway where all the hot air has collected from the downstairs storage heaters that have been charging all night. It's always the hottest part of the house, and on a morning like this the heat is stifling. As I make my way down the bare wood stairs I can feel the temperature drop with each step, culminating in a chilled freshness that fills the ground floor.

I'm greeted with a stack of post, most of which has no relevance to my day. Loan offers, clubcard vouchers and insurance pamphlets – all disposed of in seconds to the recycle bin where they'll be reconstituted over time into more loan offers, clubcard vouchers and insurance pamphlets. My plans for the day involve little of consequence, which is a rarity. Normally my weekends are taken up with working overtime, jobs and chores to be worked around the house and other 'must-do' tasks. Genuine relaxation time is practically unheard of. But today I have tickets for the local derby grudge match between Southend and Col U. It's traditional, whenever we find ourselves in the same league, I find myself having a greater sense of locality. I try and make as many home games as I can each season, usually revolving around the constant factors of time, effort and money, but a derby match is one that I won't miss no matter what else is happening.

Within a few minutes I'm stood in my living room in nothing but my underwear, nursing a cup of tea and flicking through the on-screen TV guide. Kids TV. Flick. Music TV. Flick. Religious TV. Flick. Sport build-up TV. I settle for the background clatter of big match facts, personal vendettas, overly intricate stats and regional tribalism. Logged. I drain the remains of my drink and head upstairs to shower and get the day moving, picking up my phone on the way and checking for messages.

'Hi from Orange. Got any plans this Wednesday? Treat a friend to the cinema on us. Text FILM to 241 for your text ticket.' Delete.

There's no food in the cupboard, so when I'm showered I head off for a fast food breakfast. Handily, I have a discount voucher that arrived in the week, so I drive the short distance to McDonalds for my guilty pleasure. Naturally, with the voucher giving me such a generous saving, I order double as it makes some economical sense. A 25% saving from two breakfast meals is a greater saving than a 25% saving from one breakfast meal. It's simple arithmetic – and more free food is acquired. I hand over my voucher, the barcode is scanned and a hidden process is set in place where I'll receive more vouchers within the week. Logged.

I sit in the car park eating my breakfast, washing each mouthful down with insipid coffee. As I eat, a Police patrol car pulls through the entrance with two weary cops looking for the last stimulant of a long night shift. They swing into the parking bay next to me and all manner of equipment housed on their dashboard processes my right to be on the public road. I'm drawn into that peculiar mental game we all play – attempting to watch the Police without actually looking, and also without appearing as though I'm avoiding their glances. I'm suddenly very aware of every movement I make, and a nonchalant tweak of my radio suddenly feels like am-dram theatrics and an admission of the most heinous of crimes. As the two officers get out of their car and make their way to the front doors, I start my engine and glide out of the car park. I'm soon on the main road heading into town and my car is just one of many going about Saturday morning business.

The queues at each petrol station I pass are huge, but I can't push the car further into the red so I reluctantly stop and join the wait. As each driver fills their tanks, more cars join the various queues and the forecourt stays busy throughout my stay. It's a grey and depressing morning, and each car is filled with people heading out to complete the weekend's chores, start some early Christmas shopping or any other combination of reasons to be here waiting to fuel their cars. In front of me is a large black people carrier with two kids in the back creating steamy windows. A mixture of faces and words are written backwards on the glass, shaky children's handwriting sits next to a simplified drawing of their large bellied Dad, who is partly obscured by the giant eye that the older of the two kids seems to have drawn. They take turns in breathing onto the glass to create their misty canvas and the older drawings fade to make space for the new designs. The large bellied Dad from the picture returns from paying with armfuls of impulse purchases he's picked up from the mini-supermarket.

The familiar lag from the number plate recognition makes me wait an uncomfortable few seconds, so I'm left clicking the trigger of the pump on and off until my car is cleared. As the pump clunks into life, I twist the nozzle to stop the overly efficient sensor picking up on the inside of the fuel pipe. I'm then transfixed as the digital display scrolls through it's sequence until I slowly release the trigger and let it settle at a rounded figure. Moving into the pay kiosk, I'm greeted with the blasts of a hot air wall and brightly coloured promotional display units. Multi-pack deals on huge bags of sweets. Bonus Nectar points on specific tea varieties. B.O.G.O.F. deals on windscreen wash. I bustle past them all and join the queue to pay alongside some other equally dreary looking customers. I pass £40 cash and a nectar card over to the woman behind the desk who reminds me rather cruelly of Jabba the Hut. How she's placed herself behind the high-top counter and on top of the high legged chair is beyond me. She grunts "Thank-you" and the Jabba vision is only bolstered, her flat features staring past me and into the distance where she must lose herself to less mundane thoughts.

A bank of monitors showing grainy monotone CCTV images flicker next to Jabba's till. As she swipes my Nectar card, I see the queues building up behind the cars taking the spaces at the pumps. A steady stream of blocky people wander from their parked cars to the shop's automatic doors, jerkily drifting in and out of shot. With faces made of chunky pixels and each figure wearing varying shades of grey, the winter's day atmosphere is only deepened by a touch of melancholy.

"Thank-you" she repeats impatiently and I'm jolted back into the present as the cashier waves my Nectar card and receipt at the end of her extended arm, pitted orange peel flesh hanging like a clock in a Dali painting.

It's not long before I'm back on the road, driving along the speed restricted A127 towards Southend. Large yellow T-shaped poles look down on the road from the central reservation, each crossmember loaded with an array of cameras. The cameras log the traffic flowing along the tarmac artery, limiting movement to 50mph by recording start and end points for the average speed monitors. Each new slip road that rises to meet the Arterial is flanked with another brightly painted camera pole, so all traffic travelling along this section of the link between the coast and the capital dutifully keeps to the speed limit. Each car plays it's part in a long multi-coloured snake that stretches for miles, bunching at junctions and stretching at straights, breaking off in different directions as the snake hits the town limits.

As I queue in the traffic that fills Victoria Avenue, Police line the streets and fans of both teams stream along the pavements. Cars are motionless, halted at red lights and on either side of the road the pedestrians make their way to Roots Hall at a faster pace than any of the car bound fans. An old ground, Roots Hall has been the home of Southend Utd since 1955, altering over the years but always keeping the feeling of real English football. The ground was made with sweat and toil by groundstaff and fans alike, and would have felt thousands of feet walk across it's concrete floors each season. This isn't the ground of huge foreign investment, this isn't the ground of play-acting prima donnas. This is a ground of cold afternoons, workhorse players and fans so close to the pitch that the linesman can hear every word uttered by the crowd in the stand behind him. He knows how they feel about every tackle, every pass and every controversial decision, he can feel the breath of 5,000 fans on his neck, hear 5,000 insults and feel 10,000 eyes shooting daggers when he makes the wrong call. This is Saturday. This is where grown men yell in unison; calling into the open space of the pitch, shouting instructions to players, berating a mistake or animatedly celebrating a goal.

I turn my Ford into the ground, lines of standing Police officers peer in at me as they have done to every other vehicle, whilst fans on foot stream in-between the cars waiting in the queue to park. There's a mix of old and young, kitted in Southend's navy blue and the royal blue and white stripes of local rivals Colchester, some fans sporting their bright yellow away kit. The atmosphere is friendly enough for now – jibes cross between rival groups of fans, but nothing is filled with any vitriol until kick-off. The steady filling of the ground is set to a soundtrack of rumbling cars, hopeful conversation, calls to buy fanzines and gentle rain, freshly falling as I park the car and step out into the gloom.

I join the crowd on foot waiting at the turnstiles. As the barcode on my ticket is read by the automated barriers, a welcome message flashes on-screen and I squeeze my slim frame through the rotating gate. Anyone larger than me would have some serious problems getting into the ground, but yet I only weigh just over 12st, spread over a 6'2" frame.

The mass of people wedged into the peeling blue painted brick corridors makes its way up the narrow concrete stairs. Every step is determined by the group movement, every step is slightly uncomfortable as balance is distorted by such child sized movements, until finally, as I pass through an arch and the ground opens up in front of me and the loud speakers fill my senses. Ahead lies the glistening green expanse of a well groomed pitch, either side of me Southend fans shuffle into their seats and a set of wooden stairs leads down from my position at the top of the stand, to row A at pitchside. The stairs are full of people making their way down to their own row, then squeezing into the narrow seating to get to their allocated seats. An old guy in an luminous orange jacket glances at me as I stall at the top of the staircase, he tugs at my ticket, reads the information held on it and ushers me forward, pointing to the left, halfway down the creaking wooden steps. I make my way down to row K to squeeze past the assortment of people already in their places and stop at seat 73, nestled snugly between two sets of friends; my solo seat is conspicuous in its emptiness.

It's a sold-out game as local derbies tend to be and the atmosphere is gradually becoming tense as kick-off approaches. The stadium bustles with 11,000 people shuffling in their seats and rumbles with the noise of many thousands of conversations; the away stand, behind the goal to my right, is impressively noisy considering the relative lack of numbers.

Their chants are quickly turned to gasps, as within minutes Southend have gone 2-0 up; the Colchester side looking lazy and motionless from the outset. The home crowd at Roots Hall are gleefully cheering their side on, deafening chants are levelled at the Col U fans who try in vain to life their team's spirits. But just as the Southend fans have begun to gloat about a prospective goal fest, the home side begin to loose the plot with passes repeatedly going wildly astray. The Colchester side, buoyed by the erratic game of their opponents, begin to exert pressure which makes the Southend game suffer even more. Slowly, from being in the driving seat and looking to be victorious in a crunching local derby, Southend loose vital momentum. Colchester pull one goal back from a deflected free-kick and it's they who are looking more likely to earn points out of the match.

My voice is hoarse, initially from jubilant cries at our two goals, then from yelps of disenchantment at my team and the bias referee. All decisions seem to be falling the way of our opponents who are making more than enough use of their possession. Every time the whistle blows, the ref seems to make a strange assessment of the incident, awarding Col U with free-kicks and ignoring blatant fouls on the home side's players. The stadium rumbles with discontent, calls are made to the ref, fans shout a mix of helpful and scathing remarks at their team and sarcastic applause meets yet more failed passes. The tide has turned, and the crowd has turned with it. The small section of Col U fans are noisier than before, driving their team on further.

The half time whistle is greeted with relief and the home players trudge towards the dressing room. In contrast, the brightly yellow clad Colchester side spring from the pitch to the tunnel as the stadium P.A. begins to announce the raffle winners and the results of weekly win a car competition. As the fans rise to their feet and a bulk of them make their way to get refreshments, talk all around the stands turns to the lacklustre first half performance. Tactics and opinions are shared to the soundtrack of the rest of today's half time scores being read out across the tannoy, as the more statistically minded members of the crowd begin to work out league placements if the scores stay as they are. As the teenage dance troupe The Blue Belles emerge onto the pitch, the crowd amble back to their seats for the second half. The weather is as miserable as the display on the pitch, more than one fan must be considering the value of their tickets when the team they've paid to see are so lucklustre, on such a grey and uninspiring day.

Nothing has changed in the interim; the visiting team are easily in control of the game, firstly equalling the scores and then pulling into the lead to put the scoreline at 2-3. Large sections of the Southend crowd bellow at their team, passes continue to go awry and Colchester easily make use of the gifted possession. It's all one sided and as the minutes tick away some home fans begin to trudge out of the stadium, deciding to forgo the remainder of the match.

Out of nowhere – in stoppage time and completely against the run of play – a cross is fired into the Colchester box. From my seat all I can see is a mangle of players, the blue and yellow strips of the competing sides blurring into a mess with arms and legs in all directions. The crowd behind the goal leap suddenly, arms in the air, calling in celebration; and the rest of the stadium follows. A euphoric sense of relief fills the air, screams fills my lungs and ears, home fans throughout Roots Hall are filled with unrivalled joy. Three sides of the stadium are a jubilant mess of motion, noise and celebration. No one can see what exactly happened, but all we know and care about is the the ball was bundled over the line – Southend's players peel away from the goal mouth and run to the advertising hoardings to celebrate with the fans. Colchester's players are left looking bewildered as the referee blows for full-time. The last kick of the game went to Jean-Francios Cristophe in the 95th minute, in our eyes he'll never make a more important contribution to a game. Southend have had a lucky escape against the local rivals; the players know it, the crowd know it and everyone at Colchester United knows it. The South Stand, clad in a mixture of Col U's away kit yellow or home strip blue and white stripes, begin to exit the ground with the knowledge they were one kick away from a famous derby win.

...
"It's bullshit" he nods in agreement.

"Everywhere; wherever I look, wherever I go, whatever I do. I'm beginning to notice more and more, there's absolutely no escaping it. Do we have a choice? No, of course not. We pay for it all, but we have no say in how it's operated! Who's looking right now?"

"The barmaid?" he jokes. Andy is sitting opposite me in the Quart Pot, one hand nestling the cold pint of Fosters that sits on the table between us. Hunched over the table, elbows resting comfortably and playing with the condensation on the outside of the glass, Andy is my drinking buddy for the evening and can always be counted on to rally against modern life.