819 miles for ninety minutes of entertainment is a bit extreme, but that’s what you get when we play Plymouth. Some folks don’t go that far on their holidays, and it means that Friday night is spent on a bus, the toilet of which someone has kindly decorated with their evening’s beer and kebab. This decoration is not compulsory, although it happened on more than one of the coaches. Even the first appearance of the super Lilo Lil (£9.99 version) was scant comfort, although it did get me a couple of hours of comfy kip. Sleeping on buses is an acquired skill, with only a select few being competent at it, but some, like Mr Owens, being Grand Masters. Us mere mortals need to take advantage of it being a Friday night.

It’s always an excuse to have a night out to help with sleeping en-route, and I was lucky enough to have two beer festivals to choose from - the Grand or the Daleside. I chose both, and was heartened to discover that we’ve signed the mags best defender (according to the landlord of the Daleside). Shame he can’t keep us a clean sheet.

By the time we called into the giant caravan park that is Exeter services, we felt (and probably looked) like we’d travelled several thousand miles, so it was nice to be able to stick your head in a sink for a couple of minutes to freshen up. However, seven in the morning in the motorway service toilets is neither the time nor the place to be applying hair gel, although Lee did look ready for a night on the town when he’d finished. Shame it wasn’t yet 9 when we hit town, but he led the charge through Littlewoods café for the 74-item breakfast.

Wetherspoons pubs might be much-of- a- muchness beer supermarkets, but they’re cheap, easy to spot, and some of them open at 10. When our lass phoned at 11:05 she said “it sounds like you’re in the pub already”, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we’d been there an hour already, and had been joined by Mr Fickling and Ms Callaghan. They declined our offer of a game of cards, and they showed little interest in Ron’s patent North East football prediction league (in which I’m currently nowhere, but thanks for asking) so we roped in a couple of young lads from Rickleton, who showed their gratitude by winning money. This was despite one of them wearing a suspiciously black and white tracksuit top, and Lee (AKA Brett Maverick) having ten more cards than anyone else.

Suitably refreshed, we took the number 43 to the ground, squeezed another couple down at the Britannia, and won Britain’s fifth gold medal of the day by winning the repacharge (spelling dubious) in synchronised road-crossing. We thought we’d solved the mystery of Thomas Butler when we discovered a fair-haired Irishman in a number 14 shirt with “Butler” across the top. The shirt was genuine enough, but had been a gift from its owner to young Eamon, who told us that the real thing was trying to get a contract with a club back in the Republic. Unfortunately, he didn’t know what had gone wrong with Thomas’s head that forced the disappearance. Full marks, though, to the wearer for flying from Eire to Bristol then skateboarding to Plymouth.

Full marks NOT to Plymouth, who’d sold us numbered seats and then told us to sit anywhere. Likewise Mick McCarthy, who’d given us numbered players, but then let them wamble about fairly aimlessly for the first half. By the time most of us had found where not to sit, we’d conceded a soppy first goal, and spent the rest of the half on the back foot. Plymouth took the game to us, were quick, incisive, and enthusiastic, and we had nothing to counter that with. OK, we came out livelier in the second half, could have had a penalty when Arca was felled, but didn’t really deserve anything other than Stewart’s consolation. Three goals in four games is not bad going, so perhaps I was a bit hasty in condemning him last week, but, on the other hand, should he continue his goalscoring exploits he’ll pretty soon become a saleable asset, and we all know what happens to them.

It’s a long enough journey with three points to carry, but a lot longer with none, and our choice of entertainment summed up our mood – Deliverance.

Man of the Match? Arca buzzed, Lawrence slung in a few useful crosses, and Thornton once again created a goal, but my vote goes to young Eamon for travelling even further than the rest of us to get to the match.

Keep the Faith,

Sobs