Horse on the line

Football. Isn't it? Jumpers for goalposts, Big Ron and Fatty Faulkes. Gazza as a pundit on ITV. Graeme Le Saux getting called a poof just because he spoke in RP and read the Guardian. That's what it's all about.

Then there's all that came with Div 1, then Sky and the advent of the Premiership, then the new Div 1, then League 1, BBC1, Monty Don and the Hand of God. And whatever else the marketing bods at Coca Cola decide to call any of our divisions in the future.

But there is one tradition that the money men from big companies cannot touch: the glorious, notorious football weekend away. Nevermind your prawn sandwiches and the new Emirates Library. I'm talking about following YOUR side up and down this great country of ours just for the fun of it. Your local, obscure (shite) team who may or may not have enjoyed fame and glory fifty years ago. You know who you are. Gillingham fans! Come on down! (Actually, there hasn't been that much fame or glory...)

You could be a Brighton fan on a busman's holiday to the seaside to watch the Seagulls at Blackpool (not literally) for yet another windy fixture; a Southend Shrimper wanting to sample the lights and delights of Stockport County (is there or has there ever been a county called Stockport? Can you imagine all those Man U players living in Alderley Edge, Stockport?), or even a Luton fan wanting to watch some real football at Torquay or Lincoln. Come on! We're on the march with...

And that's another thing - old footy songs. Whatever happened to 'Here We Go'? Or any song sung to the tune of that old British Airways advert on the telly in the Eighties: 'We'll Take More Care of You'? (I can't actually remember any football lyrics that went to that tune, but I can assure you there were some).

Anyway, back to the matter in hand.

The dates loom large in the diary of all those who understand. It truly is a religion. Up early on that Saturday morning. Check the weather: looks great for football. Always does when you're going. Could be pissing down with rain, freezing cold and blowing a gale. But if you've got a ticket to THAT game, that's all that matters. On the way to the station. Bleary-eyed? Of course. Hungover? Almost certainly. Six cans in a plastic bag for the half-hour journey to the Inter City train? Oh yes! And they're cold. Doesn't matter how much I drink on a Friday night, I still seem to be thirsty in the morning.

Match ticket? Check. Beer vouchers? Check. Child-like excitement at the thought of visiting numerous pubs in a far-away town before going on to watch your team win, lose or draw? Check, check and check again!

They don't talk about that on MOTD. Lawrenson? Never been on holiday outside the Premiership. Me? Spent every penny I had going to places like Chesterfield (pre-mobiles), on my own, to surprise some mates who were going to be at the game only to found out when I got there that the match had been postponed because the pitch was under two-foot of snow. Brilliant. And that time I made me and my mate miss our train from London to Gillingham and then get a later one...which was held up by a stray horse on the line. Still made it in time to see our team lose three-nil, though.

Stay tuned. Plenty more still to come. Episodes include 'Always Pissed, Never Dismissed', 'More Than A Feeling (Norwich away, can't remember when)' and 'Get Your Own F***ing Hotdog'.