So me and a couple of mates booked into a B&B right next to the lake so I wouldn’t have far to stagger the next morning. We parked up on the morning of the game, unloaded our stuff, and collected the keys to the B&B from the owner, a really tiny and timid looking old lady. She seemed very nice and wished us well, asking us to try to not make too much noise when we got in.

A hale and hearty meal was consumed in the weatherspoons in town and we were on our second of the day when the Latics faithful started to pour through the doorway and cause a jam at the bar, so we got three pints in each and settled down to chat to a bunch of old Liverpool fans, real dyed-in-the-wool types. And very jolly they were too. As kick off drew near, it was funny to witness the local constabulary walk round the pub, accosting all and sundry whilst telling them “You’re going to the match, come with us”. Various protestations led to heated arguments before the cops managed to herd about fifty shifty-looking types into a huddle outside the pub, and then frog-marched them to Anfield. The place was still full of Latics fans and we started to sing as soon as they’d left!

Another pint was consumed before flagging a taxi and proceeding merrily to the ground, alcohol fuelling our confidence. By the time we’d taken our seats a comfortable victory seemed assured; cue Mr Micheal Pollit. Well, he only went and palmed a deflected Crouch effort into the roof of his own net when it seemed easier to knock it over the bar. He redeemed himself however and kept the score down to a mere 3-0. We’d been hammered. Only one cure for that then…. 10 pints!!!

After a 40 minute walk back into town we ordered more ale at a hospitable watering hole and proceeded to down the pints hammer and tongs, and soon, we couldn’t even see, let alone communicate, the B&B key fob thrust under a taxi-drivers nose can be the only explanation I can think of as to how we got back to our beds. My mate Jim reckons I was snogging some absolute hosebeast and Rick found a telephone number written in lipstick in his pocket, alongside the words: Call me….. love Bernard. I kid you not.

Anyway, my alarm went off at a ridiculous hour and I raised myself, limbs and head pounding, to try and compete in this fishing competition. There was no-one else up, including the landlady, so I put some bread in the toaster and went back upstairs to clean my teeth. Staring bleary eyed at my reflection I suddenly noticed the smell of burning and raced downstairs to find the bread had been reduced to carbon and smoke was filling the entire room. I quickly opened the windows hoping the little old landlady wouldn’t discover what I’d done. When the smoke began to clear I noticed a laden clothes horse in the corner, and afraid that they would stink of smoke, lifted an item of clothing and had a sniff. It was fine. At that the moment, the little old landlady appeared and gasped in horror. I looked at her, she looked at me, and then I glanced down to see that I’d been sniffing a rather stained pair of old frillies.