21 POMPEY THINGS

1. It rained - all day, all night and in fact "it was raining all over the world"

2. The trip down was smooth and quick and we were in the pub before midday

3. Gazing at beautiful barmaids

4. In fact every single Portsmouth girl was beautiful. It must be all those sailors from all over the world impregnating the local female population.

5. The Wigan girls we saw were not beautiful.

6. In fact the two in front of us moved as they were "not going to sit here listening to this"

7. We didn't see any sailors but we did see the sea and there were loads of blokes and girls jogging and - worse than that - power walking.

8. They decided to carry out roadorks on the one road into the ground with a match on!

9. The beer was good

10. The crusty BLT roll was even better

11. They have put a roof on the away end at Fratton Park for this season

12. And charged us £34 for the privilege

13. The coppers and stewards were okay - two seasons ago they were all for locking us up and throing away the key - it must be cup fever

14. Not that you would know they were going to Wembley next week - no grafters knocking about or anything

15. Then again it was raining - have I mentioned the rain

16. We lost - as usual

17. But we missed a penalty and ended up with five men up front.

18. Only one of whom (Sibierski) looked like he had any chance of scoring

19. David James is still the best keeper in this country and nothing else really happened

20. Apart from Defoe got two, Harry twitched (most probably) and Marcus Bent dreamt of getting home to his Bury Bint Gemma

21. On the way home it was dark, it rained, we shouted at idiots calling up 606 on 5Live and laughed at one of our lot that is probably still hobbling around Pompey as we speak due to wearng inappropriate and brand new footwear

ps Pompey's a really good place - might even go next season. Then again...

IT'S A LOCAL PUB FOR LOCAL PEOPLE

Recently a mob of us got talking about how we used to go to the pub when we were young and just embarking on our drinking life. We were also noticing how you see few young people in your local nowadays. We used to go the local and then go up town. Now these young 'uns just go out at 10pm and hit the £3.95 bottles down Luminar Leisuredome. At this rate in 30 years time there'll be no local pubs.
Every man and woman should have his or her own "local". Pubs where you feel at home in. Pubs where you can go in after an absence of 3 weeks and the landlord will still get you your "usual".

These pubs should be proper pubs. There should be characters of all ages and there must be a dartboard, pool table, a jukebox (to annoy the one's watching the racing), a fruit machine and at least six sets of dominoes behind the bar. There should be distinct areas and you should always have "your own seat or area". Politics is discussed loudly at the bar and it should all consist of "complete bollocks" and everybody should agree. Rival football fans should argue continually, take the piss mercilessly but never come to blows. There should however be a scuffle every couple of months just to remind you that you are in a pub and not a library. It will last for 30 seconds and will undoubtedly be over dominoes!

The food menu should consist of pie and nothing else. Oh except Pork Scratchings for those that insist on a bit of variety. Half the pub must drink mild and there must be bottles of Mann's Brown Ale behind the counter - even if you never see anyone drinking it. Smoking will not be frowned on and kids will not be welcome. There will be a fridge full of Breezers etc for the girls but any man seen drinking one will be rounded on with cries off "puff" and nobody will go to the bog while he's in for the next five weeks. Conversations in the bog will all start with "Alright lad" and will generally finish there.

Any stranger will be eyed suspiciously while any young attractive girl entering the pub for the 1st time will be eyed with great excitement, beer bellies pulled in, and swearing will stop for a good 30 seconds. Sport must be on the television from the moment the pub opens until the moment it closes. This usually results in you watching "Fly Fishing at early knocks and finishing off with WWF wrestling at closing time (which will NOT be 11.10pm). Of course everyone is an expert at everything on the box. Horse racing being the specialised subject. And of course a proper pub should either have a bookie in there, one across the road or a telephone account.

There should always be that changeover period when people coming out for the night bump into those that have been in all day. There should also be people in there that were married to each other but are now divorced and there should be somebody having an affair with somebody else. Everyone in the pub knows this is going on except the husband. There must also be family rows and everybody must complain about the prices even though it's half the price of those at the fleshpots up town.

There must also be the next generation of drinkers coming along. These lads might play football now and be slim and fit but in 6 years they'll be stood at the bar with all the other fat fucks. The pub, meanwhile, must have pool teams, darts teams, football teams, golf societies etc if only so the locals can get loads of free scran when the opposing team fucks off because they've lost and they think cheating was going on. You should also be able to buy or get hold of anything you want.

These pubs are about and hopefully everybody reading this has their own.
It's the rest of the buggers that think 'Chicago Rock' is the place to be that worries me.

LONG LIVE THE LOCAL AND MINE'S A PINT OF BITTER

Never any good at thieving

You've either got it or you haven't. A good mate of mine is the best sneak thief I've ever met. Anupbringing in North Manchester obviously helped the lad and when we were in our twenties hecould "nick for England". He still has his moments but back then he'd nick to order. From hot pasties from the pie shop to basically anything that wasn't nailed down. Saved us a few pence, I can tell you.

It also stopped me nicking which was a great thing as frankly I was shite at it.
I put it down to getting caught nicking a box of Pontefract Cakes when I was about 9. The problem wasn't exactly that I got caught at our paper shop but more the fact that I thought I was nicking a box of Liquorice Allsorts. Have you ever tasted Pontefract Cakes? Ever since that day I lost my nerve.

Whilst my mates could secrete a nuddy mag inside their Crombie overcoat with ease I'd always be there coppering up for my quarter of Pear Drops. Other lads would eat like a king for exactly nothing as they emptied the whole of the sweet counter out as the dithering old dear was looking for the Paraffin they ordered.

As we got older and started going the match it was always me that got caught on the train without a ticket. The one time I scaled the walls I was lifted due to me wearing a long beige raincoat and blue cravat (don't ask) - clod out and told not to return before I paid, went back in and was immediately ejected again due to my natty attire. Away trips would see me as the only one buying a Ginsters’ pasty as the motorway shop was relieved of it's contents by all the other lads. At one game I was busy paying while one lad was throwing hot chicken legs over my shoulder to the lads waiting outside. On another occasion I overheard one of the lads say to the checkout girl: "Hurry up love this choc-ice is melting in my pocket" as he casually paid for a 10p chewy bar.

And the times I've been in record shops when it would have been easier to go behind the counter, find the right record put it in it's sleeve and walk out rather than pay are too legion to mention. I've stood and waited five minutes for people to appear to pay for something when I could have lifted the entire shop. I was once stood at a checkout counter in Potter's Bar as two checkout girls were so engrossed in their conversation (about being shagged the night before) that I could have walked out with the four bottles of wine in the basket. Yet I chose to stay and listen to their sordid tales. I've been caught running away from restaurants, and caught double clicking at the turnstiles.

And it's not just me nicking stuff that I'm no good at. The fact the bastards always get me makes it worse. I've been short-changed hundreds of times. I've stood at bars and argued so much that I've been clod out. Once - as well as being short-changed - I was subsequently charged an extra £50 plus £30 costs for kicking the said establishment's door in. I've been pick-pocketed twice (to my knowledge) and had my house burgled three times. Had football gear stolen and even had a Fila BJ trackie top nicked as it masqueraded as a goal post.

So as I am firmly entrenched in middle age I feel it is time to change my ways. Fuck it I'm going to be a bank robber or a fraudster or a conman that steals old ladies' fortunes.

Maybe I could go for some elaborate internet scam or even become a counterfeiter. Whatever, I'm sick of being ripped off.

And to start this life (late in life) of crime I can inform you that the notes I made for the piece have been written on an ASDA "smart price" memo pad. Nicked from ASDA Wigan - cost 9 pence!

I'm on my way!

Cornish Through and Through

I broke one of life's cardinal sins the other Sunday.

Like eating a kebab when you're sober I actually bought and ate a Ginster Cornish pasty when I wasn't going to/coming from an away game!

I sort of condoned the action in that I was coming back from the Arsenal home game, being starving at all that and steadfastly refusing to give Father Jack and Auntie Doris any money in the ground the Co-Op at Marsh Green awaited.

Now I went in with the full intention of buying something to go with the bags of pasta I have at home but there they were. The black, red and brown packaging emblazoned with "Traditionally Cornish" and that photo of that beautiful beast of a pasty.

What's more they were two for the price of one! Two for £1.39 - a complete and utter bargain! Deal done!

Any match-going football fan will know the pride and place that the humble Ginster holds in their affection. A stop at a motorway service station or British Rail station buffet would not be complete without picking up one of the said pastries. Blimey some people actually pay for them. And those that do pay actually buy them do so as they are the only item that appear to offer value for money (sort of). The choice of an Egg Mayo butty or a Ginster? No contest. They may be £2 but sod it. Team up with a bottle of Lucozade and you have a meal of Michelin star standard - and 20 minutes off the beer.

But are they any good? For anybody that has the good fortune to tackle a proper Cornish Pasty then the answer would probably be okay. The pastry is a little stodgy and of course you are eating them cold which doesn't help but the carrots, spuds and meat is pretty damn fine. Nice and peppery - not as peppery as their peppered steak slices but not bad - and a nicely annoying outer pastry that means you spend the rest of the journey home taking bits out your jumper. All in all they are a 7/10 on the Football Food stakes.

After the Arsenal game I gave my two the half chips/half rice treatment by having the first one cold and then whacking the second in the microwave. I should have elected on the oven but couldn't be arsed with the wait. The hot one was superior and as I checked the league tables on teletext life was sweet.

Ps for pudding I had custard creams dunked in coffee - lovely

This article is from The Mudhutter EZINE 14 see below for details

HAPPY EASTER

ANN MILLER - THE OTHER (AND FAR MORE SEXY) GIRL IN EASTER PARADE

HAPPY EASTER TO EVERYBODY READING THIS

THE MUDHUTTER EZINE MARCH 2008

Welcome to the latest issue of The Mudhutter Ezine Usual stuff: Music, clobber, sport, women, features and the DAVE FROM SKEM interview. Conducted by DAVE FROM SKEM, himself. DON’T ASK!!! As the football season is coming to a heady climax we will be issuing an ezine each month. The Mudhutter is now available in the downloads section

http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/download.php?view.22

Forever Summer 1974

And I’m sat in my bedroom dreaming of Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And Doreen who is a hunk of a man,and she can wipe every boy from the land.

And that is what London is about when you’re 14. Victorian vases and girls that are trying to stick their cosmic philosopher’s words into rhymes.

And it all smells of incense and patchouli oil and there are violins and glam make-up and wicker chairs and wicker men and Britt Ekland.

And it’s Jesus wellies and cut-off Wranglers and it’s Orrell ressies. But it could be Hyde Park and girls that could sweep, skip, jump and leap into a room full of clowns.

And the sun shines and in my mind I watch Loretta taste the wine and kick the actor from behind.

And I am now home sprawled across the sofa and Marlene enters my mind and as her make up starts to fade away I spy Ramona by the door calling me the perfect whore.

And I never lost control.

And for a while it was a very strange show.

And it got stranger as five years later I am in Hyde Park and there is no Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And there is no hideaway. No lady from a background of pearls. Just me spaced out in this human menagerie – fooling with bravado.

And you know what I’m still there.

The North will rise again

Photo courtesy Dave Broome

THE MUDHUTTER MARCH 2008

COMING SOON to http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/: THE LATEST MUDHUTTER – BEEN A BIT BUT HEY, REAL LIFE AND THINGS GOT IN THE WAY. SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO WE GIVE YOU MUSIC, FOOTBALL, DANNY DYER, CASINO REVIVAL, KATE MOSS, RAY HARRYHAUSEN, KERRY KATONA, THEATRE AND ALL SORTS OF NONSENSE INCLUDING THAT INTERVIEW WITH DAVE FROM SKEM AND BY DAVE FROM SKEM. ENJOY - AND OF COURSE ALL FEEDBACK AND ARTICLES ARE WELCOME AT
info@mudhutsmedia.co.uk and on the forums at http://www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk/

I Haven't Stopped Dancing Yet

It's an old article but I'm feeling lazy so, what the heck

I haven't but it's probably about time that I did! A night in a club now means 2 days in bed - alone I hasten to add. It's one or the other now on a Friday night and needless to say I'm doing more dancing than shagging. But hey, I've been at it longer.

In (a rough) order I've done:The Skinhead Moonstomp. All in a row with Max Romeo and Judge Dread on the sound system.

I've back-flipped at the Casino and I've even taken talc to the school disco to polish the floor. I've flipped and twirled and back-dropped with the best of the 3rd year.

At the same places I've banged my head to Paranoid by Sabbath and flounced all over the floor to LA Woman and played air guitar to Freebird.

Quo has come and gone and I've pogoed over dancefloors and concert halls with the best that 1976 could offer.

I've shimmied and sashayed across the floor at Crackers in Wardour Street on a Friday afternoon with the best jazz funk dancers you've ever seen and then shirked off out of the way knowing that I'd never be that good.

I've skanked to Madness and The Specials and I've done "the bogle" with beautiful black girls.

And I've swayed in sync with thousands of others at the court of the king Bob Marley and I've been blown away by Tapper Zukie and Burning Spear.

I've worn a long raincoat and stared at my shoes while Ian Curtis made the whole fucking earth move with his presence.

I've dove from the stage at the Marquee on a Saturday and been in the groove with Soul II Soul on the Sunday at the African Centre.

I've been out in fields with thousands of others and I'm somewhere in the middle of 100,000 when the Fun Lovin' Crims did that version of "Scooby Snacks".

I've pogoed to The Mondays and The Roses.

I've sat down for James and I've banged my head to Primal Scream.

I've danced the ceilidh at Irish weddings and been drenched in beer in the front row of The Pogues.

And gazed at the sky while the Floyd played away and dodged the flowers when Mozza spoke.

I've toned down the flips and backdrops to the Northern grooves (but still I'm out there) and I've waved my hands in the air at dodgy techno clubs.

I've been dragged onto the floor of office parties, done the okey cokey and the twist with Tessa the temp.

I've gazed in awe at the girls on stage. From Debbie to Courtney and all stops in between.

I've danced to acid jazz and been transformed back into an 18-year old punk by The Libertines.

Been on the floor to sweaty funk and smooched to dirty old soul.

But whatever I've done I'm still there. So, you youngsters, when you see us 40somethings trying to "strut our stuff" don't mock because you'll be there one day. If you're not then it's your fault. Dancing (to whatever) is fucking great. Some think it's not cool to dance but those that think that are wrong. Dancing is one of the great things in life and if you give up dancing then you give up on life itself.

Now, where's my Zimmer Frame?

“Up and down the City Road

In and out The Eagle”

Then it’s across the road to the bookies and around the corner to watch the Jack the Rippers in pub around the back. Well that’s how yesterday started. We’d took the day off. Me, Az, Elton, Si and a few others. To put some spunk in our balls, have a bet and a night-out around N1.

But now is Saturday in N10 and I awake to find a girl on the edge of my bed.

“Hi, I’m Claudia”

“Oh, Hi I’m Richard”

“Yeah I know and don’t worry nothing happened. You couldn’t!”

“Ah cheers, story of my life”

“You shouldn’t drink so much, you shouldn’t fight so much and you shouldn’t rely on young innocent girls to get you home safely.”

“Well give me a clue.”

“You were on the 43 bus insulting some New Romantic kids - and then you started on some fella and his boyfriend.”

“Shouting about how the younger lad would never get out of his house alive.”

“Yeah, the twat with the glasses.

“I don’t remember but that man is bad. Did the kid go home with him?”

“I think so, but anyhow I found you sweet, somehow.

“Plus I didn’t want to go home to my boyfriend and thought maybe there was life in a young drunken man.

“I was wrong there wasn’t I?”

“There’s life now.”

“Nah sorry, you missed out.

“Anyhow I sorted myself out. Those pictures of Buffalo Boys in The Face are useful for some things.

“I’ll see you around – gotta go to work now.

“My work number is on the magazine, give me a call on Monday.

“Just one thing, Claudia.

“Did the vampire come during the night?

“Nah, just me, honey.

“See ya”

Who the fuck is she? Cute, bit of a big arse but haven’t all Aussies. This is going to take some time to piece together. It can wait until Monday, I’ll bell her and see what happened. Az will fill me in with what he can remember about the rest of yesterday.

The kettle’s hot and she’s done the washing up. I’ll definitely call her Monday. I pour a Nescafe and butter two slices of toast. It’s 8.11am. I feel decidedly fine. Meeting Az in The Castle at one as Arsenal are playing Leeds but first I’m up west with the rest of the lads.

It’s the same route every other Saturday. We meet at the Dominion. Guzzling is late, Tone is later and Ade is even later. We laugh and joke and nip into Woodhouse on Oxford Street, down Wardour Street into Nick Nack and through the backs of Soho to Austin Reid on Regent Street. Up the stairs to gaze in awe at Fila and Cerruti 1881 and then check the check in Burberrys and Aquascutum and then brush past Eros into Lilywhites.

Always searching, us lot always searching. Looking for Sergio, Rene and Adi. Jeans by Ball and shirts from Woodhouse. Picking up garments, trying things on.

“Has Greavsie got this, Tone?”

“Does Felice wear Nike?”

Forest Hills or Wimbledon? Skiing or sailing? Pringle jumpers for goalposts. Golfing for hooligans. Tennis for thugs.

What a strange world we inhabit. What would Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher think of us? If only she knew we existed. Just young men from Carlisle to Canterbury that she knows fuck all about. All dressed up with lots of places to go. If there’s a war I’m sure she’ll come a calling.

There aren’t many dressed up in the Castle but it’s swarming with Leeds. Moustachioed men looking for a fight. And looking at my puffy pumps and faded jeans. My bubble coat and my Lancashire demeanour. Az is looking sheepish under his Guinness and hangover as my Northern accent cures their curiosity and they go on about their business not clever enough to know their white from red roses.

GOOD AWAY/BAD AWAY

As our third season in this super-duper league (sic) comes to a close we have a look at the places we visit(ed) this time out. None are magnificent and some are quite simply horrible but "live the dream" and all that, hey.

GOOD ARSENAL/BAD SPURS
We've done better at Spurs than Arsenal but the day out can't compete. Sure our little gang has found a corking place to drink for Spurs - you can ask but we're not telling you - but you just can't compare it with Upper Street/Islington High Street.
Oh and for a "Big Four" Arsenal's fans aren't too bad. Spurs fans, meanwhile, still think they are a "Big Four" club - whatever that means.

GOOD NEWCASTLE/BAD SUNDERLAND
Say whatever you want about Geordies and how we are laughing at the moment you cannot deny Newcastle is a great day out. There's just something about the place that means that every pub you go in you know you'll be welcome. On their travels their fans are tedious but up there it's great. I have also never seen so many Gregg's bakeries in one place. Sunderland meanwhile is two and half hour's of your day wasted. Arrogance knows no bounds with these men. Roy Keane and them were made for each other and as for finding a decent boozer around the ground - forget it.

GOOD CITY BAN/UNITED
Okay so City's in the middle of the Chatsworth estate and you are surrounded by polyester-clad imbeciles from Stockport but as the venerable Les Bagg says: "You never fail to have a good day out against them. There's nowt around the ground but at least in the city centre it isn't full of Irish day trippers. I know United have lots of decent fans but the impression you get when you go the game is that 2/3 of their fans don't know who they are playing that day. Never have I had so many one-way conversations as with United fans. Plus we always get stuffed there and you can't move your legs in the cramped seating.

GOOD FULHAM/BAD CHELSEA
It looks like Fulham may be going this season but we'll meet again soon. Couldn't give two hoots about the team and their fans only seem to be there as there is nothing on at Twickenham that day but as for days out - you simply cannot go wrong. Across the river and there are pubs aplenty. The weather always seems to be okay and the catering in the ground is the best in the premiership. Chelsea meanwhile - where do you begin? Earl's Court is okay but everything else about the day including the ticket prices is shite. You just yearn for the 80s, Gate 13 and hoolies from Guildford.

GOOD EVERTON/BAD LIVERPOOL
Ditto the City/United bit exactly but replace Stockport with North Wales!

GOOD PORTSMOUTH/BAD READING
Both are miles away but when you get to Portsmouth it's great. Yeah they've a bit of a reputation but they have no gripe with us and the pubs are fine. The ground is glorious. Reading meanwhile is the biggest shitehole ever with more fake Stone Island on display than in Platt Bridge. The ground is miles from the town and their JCLs make some of our own look like die-in-the-wool home and away since 1932 fans! And when you walk out the ground you really do not know where you are. Is it Derby Leicester, Bolton…

GOOD VILLA/BAD BIRMINGHAM
I'm pushing it a bit here as both days are pretty much the same. Train to Brum then trek to ground either on train, foot or taxi. The grog is the city centre is fine if you know where you are going but Villa just about shades it as somewhere at the back of your mind that Zulu stuff still lingers and the view (along with tellys on the concourse) is superior at Villa

GOOD BLACKBURN/BAD BOLTON
Again pushing it but this time because both are shite! Blackburn is just a dump of a place however they try and dress it up and as for the little mob of plazzy lads they brought to the JJB this year - deary deary me. Bolton, meanwhile, is over. A great-looking stadium (in my opinion) but where's the edge? It's a local derby and everybody's trudging miles to their cars to get away. Their fans are also total utter twats. Amir Khan, Ronnie Irani and Vernon Kay, anybody?

GOOD WIGAN/BAD WEST HAM
Hypothetical here obviously but how can an away fan not have a good day at Wigan? Cheapest ground in the country - we even provide a plush bar just for away fans and an away fans-only pub. The town is chocker with pubs and pie shops, there's a good rail network and Wigan fans tend to drink away from the town leaving it to you. West Ham meanwhile is hard work. The tube seems to take forever and pubs are not exactly friendly. That said we found a cracker this season and of course we nearly always win there so when I say bad, up against anybody but Wigan it would edge a Good.

BOOK OF DAYS - A REVIEW

An Ashton-in-Makerfield man has produced the first great album of 2008.
Book of Days by Nigel Clothier is a slice of Americana from the north west.

The north west of England.

Over the course of 11 songs Clothier takes you deep into both his heart and the heart of some exquisite music.

Long considered an expert songwriter for his work with his classic rock band Sharp Practise, Clothier shows off his beautiful voice and incredible musicianship on his solo outing.

With Clothier playing all the instruments (including a wonderful steel guitar) and immaculately produced by Fran Ashcroft - who has worked with a whole host of artistes including Gorillaz it really is a charming album.

Clothier's diction, the tunes and the downright love on songs such as the title track, Whisper in my mouth and Little English will melt the hardest of hearts.

Yet this is no one-paced album as the jaunty celebration of Manchester (and Ian Brown) in Exceptin' a beach hits the honky tonk path via rockabilly to happiness whilst the upcoming single Come North introduces the casual listener into both Clothier's and our world.

That world is one of perfectly crafted songs, simple lyrics (that are the hardest kind to write) and all wrapped up in a beautiful warm musical glow.

Switch off the lights, pour yourself a nice glass of bourbon and just imagine that you are in Austen, Texas rather than Ashton, Wigan and enjoy your own book of days.

Check out www.myspace.com/nigelclothier for details of the album and www.myspace.com/sharppractise for his excellent rock band.

Alison Goldfrapp evokes the spirit of Britt Ekland in ‘The Wickerman’ in her band’s fourth album, Seventh Tree.
After the glam trappings of the last outing, ‘Supernature’, Goldfrapp and her musical partner Will Gregory hark back to the mood on their debut album ‘Felt Mountain’.
The record awash with strings and choirs takes on a psychedelic folk feel as Goldfrapp’s West Country burr sets the tone beautifully.
With images of owls and glamorous maidens the artwork continues the theme of an old pagan England.
The lyrics, however, are timeless as Goldfrapp looks for, is obsessed by and finally betrayed by love.
So much so that she ends up in A&E – in the song of the same name – after taking some pills.
A suicide attempt has never sounded so romantic.
That is the joy of Goldfrapp as they and their music inhabit a complex world.
Sad songs are followed by joyous romps such as ‘Caravan Girl’ and ‘Happiness’ as the band refuses to rest on its laurels.
Two years ago Alison Goldfrapp was dressed as a horse and whipping her audience into a disco frenzy while now she’s dancing around a maypole. .
Seventh Tree is the ideal album to fill the cold nights until May Day arrives.Seventh Tree is available on Mute Recordings £9.99.

Joe Hawkins goes to City - shameless

Now my two fellow travellers decide that they’ll meet at noon in Manchester for this one. Well there is no way that I’m making two shandies last five hours so I jump a later train – the 12.10 or summat!

There is a fair smattering of Latics’ lads on there including (amazingly) some young lads in decent trainers. You’re almost there lads – just ditch the parrothead haircuts. Trainers look alright with lads with long hair, crops and bald heads. The world’s your oyster – just ditch the Robbie Williams boyfriend look and you’ll be fine, eh.

So it’s off the train at Salford, up to Kendals, across the road to Waterstones, through to Ran, up to Size? then up the escalators in M&S and that’s the first bit of the window shopping (and ten minutes) done!
Up Market Street, avoiding freaks, geeks, lefties, bible bashers and check out East European minxes in the lingerie section of TK Maxx. It’s then around the back into Tib Street and the holy grail that is Oi Polloi with Nige and the lads telling me that the yellow K Way kagoul will look good in Wigan!
Could have bought the shop if a) I was loaded and b) it fitted me.

And then thankfully another mate bells me and is in the Waldorf. Time to knock this shopping lark on the head and have a glass of pop.
How do Colleen and Alex do it?

The Waldorf is full of City, we keep ourselves to ourselves before meeting others in The Castle. Well I do – they won’t let my mate in as he has his lad and his lad’s mate with him. Licensing rules or summat. Which is fair enough if The Castle didn’t contravene every other Health & Safety rule there is! There’s water dripping in, the bogs are flooded and the place is genuinely filthy. Ah, home from home.
Anyhow there is a nice little chips and rice girl serving that cannot speak a word of English. She also cannot add up. Dare not think how much the till is down when she finishes her shift. I did her twice but, hey c’est le vie and all that Italian nonsense.
A swifty in that Kettle place and then the walk up to the Chatsworth estate for the game.

Personally I don’t get City. There is no atmosphere at all about the place. Now if you stand on the bridge at Latics ten minutes before kick off there is a buzz about the place. They get twice as many as us but they all seem to be just going out of duty. People are getting out of cabs and pottering from pubs but it just doesn’t seem to mean anything. I may be wrong. They may raise themselves for certain games but against us I’ve never been impressed at their place. At ours they were fine and came out with my favourite chant of the year – when our East Stand massive gave them the “Where were you when you were shit?” stuff – they to a man, woman, boy and girl gave it the “Feed the Goat and he will score”. To which 75% of our lot hadn’t a clue! At their gaff there is a sort of singing section to our right that don’t sing and for once I even join in a couple of ours. I leave the “Luis Antonio” Culture Club one alone as firstly it doesn’t scan and secondly I’m not singing a Boy George tune. Last time I saw that twat was in the Electric Ballroom when a mate of mine hit that bastard mate of his Marilyn. That’s another story for another day! But hey let the kids do what they want – and if it isn’t nicked off some other club then good luck to ‘em.
The other thing about the City fans is their banners. Not as many as last time out and thankfully I couldn’t see the Wigan City one about but there was one that said “Manchester Massive this is our Home” which is ironic on so many levels. Then there was the “Prawn-free Zone” one that every time you looked at it your eyes were diverted to the hundreds of executive lounges behind them. But hey, bless ‘em.

As for the game – pretty dull. They passed it about a bit with no end result. Stephen Ireland’s wig is even more “wiggy” in the flesh and that keeper Joe Hart is a cunt. It was good to play on grass. Valencia was excellent and Kirkland is a different keeper since Nigel Spink arrived. We keep it tight then have a go in the last ten. Should and could have won it. The excellent Sgt Wilson Palacios squandered the best chance but in football-cliché speak: “We’d have settled for a point before the game, for sure.”
On leaving the Chatsworth it’s bucketing down. Oh how I laugh as those divvies that have come without coats have to brave the monsoon. A wise man once said: “There is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing.” He was right. I pull the zip up on my Peter Storm and tread through puddles in my Walsh runners and arrive in The Wheatsheaf, off Oldham Street, relatively dry. At this point it would be unkind to mention the Mudhutter that chose to wear a very nice pair of cream suede trainers to the match. Four words: Read The Weather Forecast

Well we settle on a quiet couple before two city fans bowl in. they’re okay – well the one that isn’t beaked up to the gills is! They are fair enough but I have to chuckle when I ask them where they are from and they reply: “Stockport.”
Some things never change. Like us never losing to City in the Premier league

It is now P6 W4 D2 L0 F11 A4 (cheers YOTAC for info)
Bring on the Arsenal on the JJB meadow