Bourbon Fox

I had posters on my wall of Mike Whitlow, David Lowe and Colin Gibson Jesus

My goodness, reading that induced in me an involuntary spasm of pure rage, the magnitude of which projected a cloud of vaporised single malt from my lips that significantly dampened my poor cat.

****

Hamza for Prime Minister

It's like Rourke's Drift in our box Embarrassing

I'd really prefer to see us calmly controlling possession and dictating the pace of the game against this level of opposition

City attacks Left 26% Centre 21% Right 53%

It was downright disrespectful

Jesus this is boring

1. No 2. Senior Chelsea goal

There you go, Mason Mount. Have your first senior goal on us son

There are a couple of face value ticket exchanges on Facebook that can be a way to get tickets for a one-off

I'm transitioning into an association-by-contiguity style. You've caught me just after the death of the Oxford comma.

My first footballing memory is of watching a bloke piss through a rolled-up programme onto the steps of the kop. I'm sure we were standing, which I think would tally with it being about '89 and me being about 5 years old. What I miss is the frisson of danger, the swelling of the ranks through the side streets, sticking with the crowd and avoiding the spots where away fans might be. It sounds stupid but for a young boy having this experience of excitement, anticipation, trepidation and being part of a surge of thousands doesn't come close to any other type of feeling. A street packed with friendly strangers with a common love. The occasional glimpse of trouble or being bundled past the Shed and steered away from the horses definitely added to the impression that this was a place, a few hours, where life could be a little bit different. Oh, and the songs. Starting in Westcotes and growing down Narborough Road, by the time the streams of fans converged on Raw Dykes it was hundreds together. Sung at top volume, all joining in, borne on a breeze of Carling Premier breath and profanity. Sometimes my dad would join in, belting out something like '**** off Mark McGhee' with a 'don't tell your mother' wink and a conspiratorial grin. This was different. This was Going Down The City. Wide-eyed, silent and with a panda pop and a bag of Smith's Salt-your-own I learned about pub culture - taking the piss out of your mates, always giving a lady a seat, playing spoof and buying rounds and the confident espousal of tactical expertise. My replica shirt was sacred, worn only at the match or when emulating the likes of Tommy Wright and Muzzy on a Thursday night. I don't miss the ground per se, and I think family-friendliness is a welcome, necessary, inevitable part of progress. But somewhere along with the danger and my childhood I think we lost the thrill. Walking to the KP is always a special feeling, but it's not got the edge for me - the cocktail of passion and mild peril. Filbert Street for me will always be a place of noise, camaraderie and an intriguing hint of menace. Not saying that's a good thing, but I wouldn't want my memories to be any different.