How embarrassing was that?

April 2003, and I'm on a train between Birmingham's New Street and Witton stations, all excited and on my way with lots of others to watch Watford play Southampton in an FA Cup semi-final.

We've all had a drink ("Leave it, it's not worth it...") and spirits, naturally, are a bit high. There's plenty of singing going on, a bit of banter between the two sets of fans on the train, and the songs were all Watford, mainly poking fun at Craig David and other Southampton folk.

And then I get the urge (I must have been on the Stellas that day. But then again, it was an FA Cup semi-final). Who can I poke fun at in a vaguely anti-Southampton song?

Now, you must understand that my voice is usually no stronger than the San Marino defence - I've lost it more times than Roy Keane. I don't even know if, at the ripe old age of 34, it's actually broken yet. Must have. Anyway, so far that day, it had held out.

So young Pazza decides to pipe up with an anti-Southampton song of his own, my first solo effort of the day. What can I sing, I ask myself in an excited (half-cut) hurry. Must be witty, even a bit clever...come on - think! - something that people will like and, crucially, join in with.

I had it! I just had to wait for the right moment: a very brief silence among a hundred drunken, high-spirited football fans, who would all swig from their cans at precisely the same moment, thus providing themselves with the opportunity to listen out for the next song they could join in with as we travelled towards Villa Park (we really sensed that that day could have been ours. Cardiff beckoned. We weren't very good during that season, but then this was Southampton - and with respect to Southampton, they are not Man United).

My opportunity arrived. I primed myself (I took another swig from my can - just like all the others, only I made sure I finished first), then I launched into...

"Who the fuck is Benny Hill?!"

Bad enough, I know - neither witty nor clever. What the fuck did Benny Hill have to do with anything?!

The real trouble, however, was that when I had confidently and loudly sung the words 'Who the fuck is...' my piss-weak voice collapsed - leaving me to squeal 'Benny Hill?!' and making me sound like a mouse under a duvet.

A hundred pairs of eyes turned to look at this idiot. What's Benny Hill got to do with a big match day like this? (He was born there. Like I said - neither witty nor clever, just very, very tenuous).

Fortunately for me, once all these strangers (plus my wife and a few mates) had finished gawping at me incredulously (I think I went a little bit red, I recall), they were quickly distracted by a very kind soul who started off another song almost instantly, leaving me to console myself with what was left of my warm ale.

And that was that. We were at Witton station, we got drunk in a pub car park, and the 90 minutes were the shortest I have ever known. And we lost. 2-1.

I won't be singing about Benny Hill again.