..as part of an anthropological experiment, we've spent this half of the season in the Mill House seats as opposed to the Town End, changing location game by game. Saturdays game however was when we finally hit the gold seam, any self respecting psychiatrist would have peed his pants at the sheer volume of material squeezed into such a small space. We had a bloke wired into the information super highway, headphones firmly fixed as he randomly shouted out scores to no one in particular, a sort of Tourettes with the swear words replaced by scorelines, the match before his eyes was an irrelevance, as his eyes gazed skyward in abstract thought. We had a bloke so fat his blubber hung over the seat and seemed to run and quiver with each piece of 'advice' he bellowed at the team, the classic 'LAZY BASTARDS' after two minutes of play directed at Pools was a classic in contradiction, as he was surely the last person in the world to be able to give advice to anyone on any form of physical activity. He was good at being fat in the way dwarfs are good at being small. When he stopped for breath and ...scran, his booming voice followed by his uproarious laugher at his own 'wit'. was replaced by the odd couple, a woman who sounded like a very sensible school teacher from the 1950's and her other half, who had a voice as camp as Julian Clary on helium.... it's like a Hogarth painting in Technicolor, except the characters Hogarth captured had the benefit of ignorance as an excuse.

but they at least they paid there money to go.

So fair play them all

Biggest laugh I got was a 'forty something' fella in a 'chunky' designer sweater, giving it large to the Hereford fan dressed as scooby-doo