The metre-long snakes may be preventing the chestnuts being stolen by the squirrels, Philip, but they seem to be eating the prize goldfish!!!

What a brilliant result!! Seeing that fantastic strike by Thommo last night invoked memories of my own playing days… …It was a cold, winter night on Edisford playing fields in about 1986 and, in a typically defensive game, the scoreline was delicately poised at Hillard’s Supermarket 6 - Booths Supermarket 6, when a mis-kicked goal clearance landed at my feet 30 yards from goal. Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, I mis-controlled it into the path of the advancing centre-forward who lashed it into top corner for the winner. I still blame the ‘keeper for that defeat... …and for getting me dunked head-first into Hillard’s ice-cream freezer the next day.

Ah, still making their way home from the Man City game I expect.

That's all very interesting MB but it doesn't answer the question that is on everyone's lips - did Scotty and the rest of the Manchester contigent manage to get the right plane back from London this time?

See, they're too soft these modern footballers. I once got Britvic55ed on in a pub and I never changed to 4-5-1!! Even though I smelled like an orange for the rest of the evening.

I heard some Dingles start boasting, Of giving some sheep a good roasting, And the gap to the Rovers is closing – They’re not very sensible. Nah, nah nah, na-na-na-na-na-nah, NoooOOOO Nah, nah nah, na-na-na-na-na-nah, You’re still flipping shiot, You’re still flipping shiot, You’re still flipping shiot, You’re still flipping shiot.

Three O'clock on a Sa-tur-day, The most beautiful game you can ever play, And I'm wearing a shirt with a red rose on it, Collar's wider than a Volvo's bonnet! It don't matter to me, I'm all I wanted to be - A million miles from sober, And watching Blackburn Rovers. Ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, Oh my God, I can't believe it! I've never been this p****d away from home. And oh my God, I can't believe it! I've never been this **ss** away from home. And oh my God, I can't believe it! I've never been this *i**e* away from home. And oh my God, I can't believe it! I've never been this away from home.

As you may be aware, Scotty was supposed be doing this preview. Unfortunately he recently had a minor problem with his PC which, following advice from a couple of technically-minded friends, turned into a major problem with associated burning smell and sporadic popping sounds. As a result Scotty?s planned review of the season has had to be postponed and I have agreed to post this preview on his behalf. Well, it was the least I could do. For this preview I thought I'd take a look at just some of the illustrious players Rovers might expect to be facing on Sunday. I haven't had time to do a great deal of research so I do apologise if any of the information is accurate in any way. Paul Robinson (Goalkeeper) Originally turned down a move to the biggest club in the world when it seemed that a financial rescue package for relegation bound Leeds United might materialise. Eventually joined Tottenham when he realized what a big club they are, what superb facilities they have and that it was a dream move for him and his family ..... oh and that, if he stayed at Leeds, they wouldn't be able to pay him. Goran Bunjevcevic (Defender) Wimbledon champion 2001 Erik Edman (Defender) Erm, I think Goran beat this guy in the semi-final. I can't be sure. I hate tennis. Michael Dawson (Defender) I knew a lad at school called Tony Dawson. He was a complete arse. Michael may be related. Of course, he may not either. Hard to say really. Ledley King (Defender). No right-minded parent would ever call their son Ledley (or Leslie.. or Lee Grooby for that matter) but that was infinitely better than his real name - the anagrammatical Kyle Dingle. Fair play to the lad for attempting to cover that up but his Dingle characteristics still show through. Not only is he his own uncle but he also has all the limb co-ordination of a drunken giraffe on an ice-rink. Philip Ifil (Defender) Ifil famously took a depressed, squalid, run down area of Paris and built a majestic iron tower providing a focal point for birds of all shapes, sizes and colours to gather and harass tourists and passers-by for scraps of food before crapping on their coats. Now apparently doing the same in North London although without the tower. Simon Davies (Midfielder) Second only to Jonathan Greening in the worst Premiership hairstyle competition, Davies is the only Welsh International Mark Hughes has not been reported to be interested in signing. I guess even the newspapers have to retain a little credibility. Michael Brown (Midfielder) Ex-Sheffield United clogger who makes Robbie Savage look cultured. Worth 24 points in scrabble, 4 points in snooker and 3 points to Rovers if he plays. Andy Reid (Midfielder) Having seen the success of Javier De Pedro at Ewood Park, Spurs were keen to enlist their own overweight, inept, left winger and this is time no-one can deny Spurs succeeded. Dean Marney (Midfielder) Burst onto the scene in spectacular fashion as a member of Frank Sinatra's "Rat Pack" but became famous as much for his drinking as for his singing. He once said "You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on." (Which, incidentally, casts doubts over the sobriety of a number of Arsenal players). Dean died o on Christmas Day, 1995 of acute respiratory failure, aged 78, before joining Spurs on a free. Freddie Kanoute (Forward) Full of misplaced ambition but not blessed with much in the way of brains. First, as King of England, he believed he could turn back the incoming tide and almost drowned, then he believed he could win something by joining Spurs. What a prize lemon! Robbie Keane (Forward) Keane is obviously best known for his hit single "Everybody's changing" but he also has an unusual goal celebration. For some inexplicable reason, whenever he scores, he acts out his favourite scene from "The Three Amigos". Hossam Ahmed Mido (Forward) Signed completely by mistake. When he took over the reigns at Spurs,Martin Jol was asked which players he would be looking to sign. Jol cleared his throat and the next day this bloke turned up at White Hart Lane. Jermaine Defoe (Forward) North London's Milan Baros. The buck-toothed centre forward can, will and does shoot from anywhere rather than consider passing. He likes nothing better that running with the ball to the edge of the opposition penalty area before blasting it point-blank at the centre back's shin - normally winning a throw level with his own 18-yard box. Martin Jol (manager) One of the more natural career progressions amongst the Spurs staff. From the bungling, blundering, strangely-accented Colonel Von Strohm in charge of small group of incompetent fools in 'Allo 'Allo to Tottenham manager. The experience gained in his futile quest for the "Fallen Madonna Viz Ze Big Boobies" should prove invaluable in his equally futile search for silverware for Spurs. Spurs Manager -------------------- Colonel Von Strohm So that's it for Premiership previews for another season. To whet your appetite for next season, here a just a few of the often asked but hitherto unanswered footballing questions that Scotty will be delving into for us next season: 1. Does Roman Abramovic have any idea what's going on? Scotty investigates what, if anything, is going on behind that familiar facial expression. 2. Grabbi, why? An objective look into what else we could have had for ?7M 3. who ate all the pies? Scotty enjoys a culinary discussion with David Dunn. 4. What's it like to follow s***? From the bottom to the Irish Sea just off Blackpool, Scotty explores the british sewage system. 5. What the f-flippin' heck was that? From coins and mobile phones to Werther?s Originals, Scotty?s essential guide to some of the obscure things supporters throw onto the field of play. 6. Who the f-flippin' heck are you? Scotty takes a look at Rovers surprising goalscorer against Fulham 7. Where the f-flipin' heck am I? Scotty revisits some of the exotic locales he's woken up in whilst travelling back to Manchester from away games this season.

It came as a surprise to Nuclearsox when Glenn approached him in Blues Bar and asked him to collaborate with Scotty on a preview for the final, crucial game of the season at Anfield. It was surprising on 3 counts. Firstly he'd no idea who Glenn was, secondly he'd no idea who Scotty was and thirdly he'd never heard of Blues Bar. Still, he'd agreed to do it so he made his way to Blackburn Station to meet Scotty. Although they'd never met, Sox had been given an excellent description of Scotty and, after an initial embarrassing episode where he'd introduced himself to the big-boned station cat by mistake, he spotted the real Garfield look-a-like disembarking from the 11.24 from Leeds. "I thought you were getting the 9.05 from Manchester?" Enquired Nuclearsox after the initial introductions. "It's a long story," replied Scotty. Sox decided not to pry further. They took a taxi from outside the station and headed for Blackburn Rovers training ground at Brockhall. It wasn't easy getting into training ground. Due to the enormous status of the upcoming match, security was incredibly tight. Rovers had employed Group4 Security at considerable expense to ensure the players' concentration wasn't disturbed as they were put through their paces in preparation for the Premiership finale. Scotty and Sox weren't going to be put off by the hordes of security guards patrolling the perimeter though and, whilst Sox counted the guards' paces and the patterns of their movement, scanning for a weak point, Scotty quickly formulated a plan to get them inside. Leaping from the bushes and pointing towards the sky Scotty cried, "What the Hell is that?" As the guards looked up in bewilderment, shielding their eyes from the sun, Scotty and Sox scampered through the gates and headed for the training pitches before the guards could notice. As the intrepid match previewers reached the training pitches they were briefly stunned by the sight of their heroes warming up (although what The Proclaimers were doing there is anybody's guess) then they noticed the Rovers' players in groups not far away. Some were practising free kicks, some were practising shooting, some were playing keepy-uppy and Paul Warhurst was practising being carried of the field on a stretcher. Nothing was left to chance. The best place to grab an interview, Scotty and Sox (The SAS) decided, was the keepy-uppy session so they muscled their way in. It was harder than it looked and Sox was relieved when Scotty shouted " 'Ave it!" and hammered the ball towards the changing rooms. While Sox trudged off to get the ball, Scotty managed to grab a few words with Jason Wilcox: Scotty: Hello Jason. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Jason: No that's just mud on my shorts from when I tripped over my bootlaces earlier. Scotty: Why do they call you "handbag?" Jason: That's something that's never been explained to me. I think it's either because women throw me on the floor in the nightclubs and dance around me or because I'm small, leathery, full of crap and appear to have no bottom. Scotty: What's your favourite handbag? Jason: I'm quite fond of a couple of Burberry ones I have. I'm, hoping to start a new trend. Scotty: What do you shout at the Riverside when they have a go at you? Jason: I just shout back the things they've shouted at me over the years but I don't wait until they have a go at me any more. I normally like to boo them as I run down the tunnel for the pre-match warm up. Then I'll shout "Oi! Bloke behind Nuclearsox! You're a useless streak of pigs, clear off!!" or "My granny can do better than that!" The ball rolled through the doors of the changing rooms and Sox was about to follow it when he heard a strange noise, like the sound of a moped, emanating from within. "Botbotbotbotbot," went the sound. Cautiously Sox peered around the changing room door and was surprised to see goalkeeper Tim Flowers strapping on his gloves, transferring his weight from one foot to the other as he did so. "botbotbot," mumbled Flowers to himself. Sox saw the perfect opportunity to ask Flowers about the forthcoming game: Sox: Hello Tim. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Tim: Botbot BOTTLE! Sox: Well, quite. You were terrific against Newcastle. Where did that performance come from? Tim: Bottle. Sox: You mean you'd been drinking!? How much did you have? Tim: Bottle. Bottle. Bottle. Sox: Really!? If I just have just one I'm under the table. Will you be preparing for the Liverpool game in the same way? Tim: Bottle. Bottle. Sox: Good. No sense in over-doing it. Can you explain how Colin Hendry has blond hair when the rest of his family are ginger? Tim: Bottle. Sox: I see. And can you tell me what milk comes in? Tim: A cow! Flowers gave Sox a quizzical look and made for the door. On reaching the door he looked back, gave the same quizzical look, tutted, shook his head and headed outside. Sox listened as the moped sound died away before picking up the ball and heading back to see who else was about. In the meantime Scotty had managed to grab a few words with Alan Shearer and his wife Lainya: Scotty: Hello Alan. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Alan: Oh no, no I'm not nervous. I don't get nervous, me. Lainya: You are nervous! Alan: Aye, I'm a bit nervous but that's a good thing. Keeps you focused. Scotty: You've scored some terrific goals again this season. Which was your favourite? Alan: Definitely the goal against Newcastle. I had a lot of family and friends watching that day. Lainya: Your favourite was your third against QPR. Alan: Aye, the QPR one was my favourite. Scotty: Congratulation on winning the PFA Player of the Year award. Your speech was a bit crap though. Did you write that yourself? Alan: No, Lainya wrote it for me. Lainya: You wrote it yourself. Alan: Aye, I wrote it myself, aye. Scotty: Doesn?t your pre-match meal of chicken and beans make you fart like a trooper? Alan: No. I've an iron constitution. Nothing bothers me. I never fart like a trooper. Lainya: It does make you fart like a trooper. Alan: Aye, it makes me fart like a trooper but that's a good thing. Keeps the defenders away. Scotty: If we do win the league this weekend, how will you celebrate? Alan: I'll be going for a few pints of Geordie Juice and a curry with the lads. Lainya: You'll be creosoting the fence. Alan: Howay man Lainya! Ya cannae make us creosote wor fence when wiv just won tha teetle like! Lainya: You'll be creosoting the fence. Alan: Aye, I'll be creosoting the fence. Spotting Nuclearsox emerging from the changing rooms he wandered over to compare notes. In truth it wasn't going as well as they'd hoped but they still had a few interviews they wanted to do so they wandered off in search of the managerial team: Sox: Hello Kenny. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Kenny: Nah winevarillysitworselenitargitsthaolitagitweeersetwaselistigeayabez. Nifyageayabezofninuthariwzalbigreetaunthas the way it's proven tae be. Sox: Scotty: Sox: Ok. Erm Ray. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Ray: Scotty: Ray, Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Ray: Sox: Ray? Suddenly they both realised that Harford?s lips were in fact moving and they leaned closer to listen and just managed to make out what he said. Ray: Yes, I'm a little bit nervous. They thanked Dalglish and Harford and looked around for someone else to interview. Graeme Le Saux wasn't far away so they jogged over to talk to him. Scotty: Hello Graeme. Are you nervous ahead of Sunday's game? Graeme: Yes.... yes a little. Scotty: Is it true that you always stop part way through a sentence and repeat the previous word? Graeme: Yes, that's.... that's correct. I do....do stop part way through.....through a sentence and... And repeat the last word. Scotty: That must make you infuriating to listen to? Graeme: Well I.... I suppose it.... it does but.... but I was taught.... taught to do it in..... in anger management classes. If...... If I don't, I..... I lose my temper in...... in a fairly..... fairly catastrophic way. Scotty: Interesting. Is it also true you're a raving woofter? Graeme: That's.... that's completely.... completely untrue. Who.... who told you that? Scotty: Yes, I thought that was a totally batty suggestion. Graeme: Batty? The ******* little ****. He's my best mate too!! I'll ***** his ******* in his **** and ***** his ***** up his ****** the Yorkshire ******. "Oops," said Scotty as Le Saux stormed off in search of David Batty. "Never mind," said Sox. "It was just a misunderstanding. They're mature adults. It'll soon blow over. Let's see if we can find Chris Sutton. I want to ask him if the rumours about all his sexual partners since he came to the club are true." "I haven't seen him anywhere," said Scotty, looking round. "No, me neither," replied Sox. "HAS ANYONE SEEN CHRIS SUTTON?" shouted Scotty. Immediately all the players stopped what they were doing. They froze for a moment and looked around nervously at each other. Then, as they realized Sutty wasn't at training again, they simultaneously shouted the same four-letter word and sprinted for the changing rooms to call their partners on their new-fangled cellphone thingies. All except Paul Warhurst that is, who was frantically pointing towards the changing rooms and imploring the stretcher bearers to run faster. As the last of the players squeezed in through the changing room doors, an uneasy hush descended over the training pitches. A ball of tumbleweed rolled silently past Scotty and Sox and they watched as it disappeared into the distance. A plane overhead cut a silent, white tear through the flawless, blue, silken sky. Then the peace was suddenly shattered as the players fought their way back out of the changing rooms waving their cellphones above their heads, desperately trying to get a signal. "Shall we call it a day?" suggested Sox. "Good idea," replied Scotty and they headed for the gates. "It didn't really go as well as I'd hoped," Sox said as they squeezed back through the Group4 security guards, who were still looking skywards and pointing into the distance every now and again trying to catch a glimpse of what Scotty had seen earlier. "No not really," agreed Scotty, "Still, all's well that ends well. If we win on Sunday who cares?" As they clambered back into the taxi they vowed, if their paths ever crossed again, they would never do another match preview. Well, not for nine or ten years anyway, they agreed.

Deep into stoppage time, the crowd were chanting his name, “Nuclearsox, Nuclearsox, Nuclearsox!” as he body-swerved between two defenders, flicked the ball over another and advanced on goal. As he reached the 18-yard line with the ball at his feet, he suddenly became aware of Kirsty Gallagher nuzzling into his neck and whispering seductively into his ear. “Not now, Kirsty!”, he protested. “Later Kirsty, later”. This was it! One accurate finish and he would put Blackburn Rovers through to the FA Cup final for the first time in 45 years. One more moment of composure would send 60,000 Blackburn fans into rapture. All that stood in his way was the goalkeeper, Osama Bin Laden, who was visibly shaking as Sox poised to shoot. All of a sudden, Osama let out the most annoying high-pitched bleeping noise ever heard in the Western world. “BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP!” Sox screwed his shot badly wide and it hit Michael Jackson right in the family stand. “Ow,” shrieked Jackson as he disintegrated into his compostite parts, “ya know it! Sham on.” “BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP!” said Osama. Sox threw a punch in Osama’s general direction and knocked the alarm clock to the floor. The room was suddenly silent and, opening one eye slightly, Nuclearsox peered over the edge of the bed. The green digits on the prone clock told him it was 4:00. 4:00 on a Saturday morning!! He’d set the alarm wrong again. Then realization dawned. This wasn’t just any old Saturday morning, this was the morning of the FA Cup semi-final and he had a big day ahead of him. A big day and a big journey. He began to wish he’d travelled down to Cardiff the day before like any sensible Rovers fan would have done. “Who’s Kirsty?” enquired a voice from the other side of the bed. “Go back back to sleep dear,” said Sox. *** Two hundred miles away, a group of sensible Rovers fans, we’re staggering towards the front door of the Bristol Travelodge, singing raucously and clapping their hands above their heads. “Shhhhhhhhh!” said the one at the front urgently, gesturing to the others to be quiet, before loudly breaking wind as the singing died down. A volley of abuse immediately followed and the ensuing chorus of “There’sh only one darty bashad” echoed around the car park. It had been a good session overall, starting on the train from Manchester and coming to a natural conclusion, just an hour or so ago, when Scotty and Manchester Blue were evicted from a town centre bar following a heated argument over who had the hardest punch, Kieron Dyer or Lee Bowyer. They re-enacted the scene from the Newcastle v Aston Villa game to sort it out. Once outside the bar, neither of them could remember who was pretending to be who and a late-night curry was the obvious solution. *** Sox looked at his watch as the minibus came into view. Five O’Clock! He was looking forward to getting aboard and getting back to sleep. He hauled himself and his rucksack, laden with essentials for the day ahead (a couple of ham sandwiches, a packet of crisps and a crate of Boddingtons) into the minibus. With a quick glance round, he nodded a general greeting to the occupants, received a few tired grunts in reciprocation and slumped into the nearest seat. But that was occupied so he moved along to the nearest empty one. “Now then, breakfast time” thought Sox and pulled the crisps from his rucksack. “One more stop,” said the driver, as the minibus pulled away. He said it in such a jovial fashion that each of the passengers would have hit him if he wasn’t driving. “OH NOOOOO!! EH?” said the bloke behind Sox, “Is Oysterhausen getting on?!” “Beer for breakfast then,” decided Sox replacing the packet of crisps. He cracked open a can, took a swig and closed his eyes. *** The Bristol Bed & Breakfasts shook with the sound of alarm calls following by swearing and groaning as last night’s revellers dragged themselves out of bed and contemplated the prospect of a greasy full English breakfast. Chasing an overcooked sausage around his plate, Scotty, thought back to the events of the previous evening. Surely there wasn’t a pub in Bristol they hadn’t been in. In one particular pub, he recalled, they had found themselves sitting at the next table to a group of Arsenal supporters. The good-natured banter evolved into a singing contest, in which each group of fans questioned the other’s parentage, before descending into a finger-pointing and rude gesturing competition as the alcohol flowed. Things looked like turning nasty until someone produced a football and the pub emptied into the street for a kick-about. The Arsenal fans were much quicker and skilful than our boys but, for some reason, they would insist on rolling around on the road clutching various parts of their anatomy every couple of minutes. The landlord, who had kindly agreed to referee, fell for it every time, much to the annoyance of the watching crowd in the queue for the chippy. The game was delicately poised at 8-2 to Arsenal or 2-1 to Rovers, depending on who you asked and how high the imaginary Rovers crossbar was meant to be, when an overhit cross from Rovers’ strangely-haired left winger smashed through Woolworths window. The ensuing alarm bells were the signal for everyone to go their separate ways as fast as possible. *** Back on the minibus, Sox glanced around at the other passengers. Some faces were familiar. Some weren’t. The person sitting next to him looked uncannily like he imagined Brian Barwick, Chief Executive of the FA, looked. “Excuse me,” said Sox, “aren’t you Brian Barwick?” “Indeed I am,” replied the man obviously delighted to be recognised. “You Tosser!” said Sox. “I beg your pardon!?” “Rumour has it you took the wishes of the fans into consideration when deciding the venue and time. Is this true?” “Of course it’s true and it is scandalous to suggest otherwise. The FA always has the welfare of the fans at heart and a cross-section of the fans are consulted about every decision that is made – in this case Arsenal fans Dai and Gwyneth Jones from Merthyr Tydfill and Blackburn Rovers supporter Rhys Rees of Caerphilly. We had suggested a 17:15 kick-off but Mrs Jones would have had to cancel her dentist appointment at 16:45. When we extrapolated these figures, to account for the 60,000 supporters traveling to the FA cup semi-final, it worked out at around 20,000 cancelled appointments which is, obviously, unacceptable.” Please explain the rationale behind playing both FA Cup semi-finals at Cardiff? The FA are committed to promoting friendship and goodwill among all sets of football fans. That’s never going to happen unless we can get them together to discuss their issues and concerns. And what better way to do that than to get a hundred thousand of them, weary from travelling long distances, squeezed into a few hotels, pubs and B&Bs in Cardiff for a weekend and letting them have a few beers together. Did you know that the trains between Bristol and Cardiff are not running on the weekend of the semi-finals? Yes, that was pointed out to us at one of the preliminary meetings. We were concerned for a while about that but, thankfully, it has turned out not to be a problem as neither of Bristol teams has made it to the semi-finals. How much are you paying for your ticket at Cardiff We believe the ticket prices to be spot on. Fans have the option of paying £0, £25, £35, £45 or £55. Of course, due to the structure of the millennium Stadium there are fewer seats in some of these price brackets and some fans are bound to miss out on the lower priced tickets as they are sold on a first come, first served basis. As soon as I knew the venue of the semi-finals, I purchased my ticket. I was fortunate enough to be allocated a £0 ticket before they were all snapped up. An FA Spokesman, Adrian Bevington, suggested that playing both semi's at Cardiff would be a good thing for the fans as it would allow more of them to see the games. Please could you give me the name of his drug dealer? Barwick didn’t answer and Sox had lost interest in talking to him anyway. Looking round again, he spotted Barry Ferguson, the slimy Scottish poo-face. “Excuse me,” said Sox, “aren’t you Barry Ferguson, the slimy Scottish poo-face?” “Indeed I am,” replied the homesick mammy’s boy, obviously delighted to be recognised. “You Tosser!” said Sox. “Eh?”, said Ferguson. Have you found your dummy after you spat it out just before the transfer deadline in January? Actually, no, but then I didn’t bother to look for it. I thrashed out a deal through my agent when I first joined Blackburn that included a five-year supply of dummies. I’ve still got a couple left. Now that Blackburn have reached the semi-final of the FA Cup do you wish you'd stayed at the Rovers? I’m disappointed I won’t out there playing today but I’ve got a big game away at Dunfermline to prepare for. I was sad to leave Rovers but when you get home to find a member of your family in tears, you have to do something about it. It really hit home when Blackburn played Bolton. I realized then that the intensity of the rivalry in England isn’t the same as in Glasgow. Back home, my son was getting into fights at the swimming baths just because his father played for Rangers. In St. Annes pool, he wasn’t even recognised and he always came out in floods of tears that he hadn’t been able to smack somebody. He tried picking on a couple of the local OAPs that were just floating about but they weren’t interested. Now we’re back in Glasgow, he’s getting beaten up every week. He’s much happier. Are you happier now that your mum is cooking your tea and ironing your smalls? Oh absolutely. I’ve never been very good at domestic chores. I had to make a court appearance a while ago for a minor Road Traffic offence. I wanted to look my best so I washed my white shirts the night before. Unfortunately I left a red sock in the machine and all my shirts turned pink. I got away with a fine but I had to agree to go on a date with the judge, Percival Gaylord. Some Rovers fans thought you were crap - are you? Ferguson didn’t answer and Sox had lost interest in talking to him anyway. Looking round again, he spotted Steve Cotterill, Head of Interbreeding in Yorkshire. “Excuse me,” said Sox, “aren’t you Steve Cotterill, the sheep worrier?” “Indeed I am,” replied the professional loser, obviously delighted to be recognised. “You Tosser!” said Sox. “Oh, thank you!” said Cotterill. How do you think Burnley fans are feeling when they see their biggest rivals, a club they haven't beat for 26 years, in the FA Cup semi-finals? I know for a fact that the Burnley fans aren’t happy about it, the Burnley shopkeepers have been terrified at the prospect of Blackburn winning for weeks and Burnley housewives are dreading having to console their husbands, brothers, sons, uncles and fathers should Blackburn get through. Luckily for them though, it’s one and the same person. Do you not think your celebrations at the end of the game at Ewood were a tad over the top considering you'd lost? Well we’ve never seen that many fans at the final whistle before and we thought we must have won. It was only later we realized they were locked in. That was enough of speaking to Cotterill, he was still saying something but Sox turned away to have a more intellectual conversation with MGP who was sat in front. “Excuse me,” said Sox, “aren’t you Morten Gamst Pedersen, Superstar?” “Indeed I am,” replied the boy-band wannabe, obviously delighted with pretty much everything. Describe the feeling when you scored the winner against Burnley? Oh. It was fantastic. It great to score any goal but it was especially nice to score a late winner against the interbreds. They are despised in Norway as much as they are in England you know. Do you not think that your hair makes you look like a poof? No. It will be all the rage soon. I’m one of the Norwegian David Beckhams you know. All the kids will want to copy me. Besides, where I come from, no-one cares how you have your hair - it’s pitch black for 6 months of the year so no-one can see you. So we’re off to Cardiff today. What do you know about Wales Fishy, wet, evil-looking creature with a lot of blubber and a large blowhole – “Dean Saunders” I think it’s called – comes from there. Thanks for your time Gamst. Good luck today. Score a late winner again! I will. Now let me ask you a question. MGP pulled a torch from his pocket and shone it directly in Sox’s eyes. Sox recoiled and banged his head on the minibus window, waking him up. He’d been dreaming again. There was no torch. It was the morning sun beating down on the M4 as the minibus edged into Cardiff. Sox looked out of the window again just as the WilkyWagon drew alongside. And so it transpired that a minibus full of the most sorry-looking, jaded, haggard Rovers fans ever seen briefly gazed out at a minibus full of the second-most sorry-looking, jaded, haggard Rovers fans ever seen. Then, as the two parties, recognized each other, they exchanged greetings across the motorway in traditional manner – 30 seconds of two-fingered salutes and other rude hand gestures followed by a row of hairy backsides pressed against the minibus windows. Suddenly the hangovers and tiredness were forgotten and the two minibuses burst into song. Now the build up had really begun. Will the story have a happy ending? We’ll soon find out… The road to Cardiff:- 3rd Round Cardiff City 1 – 1 Rovers Arsenal 2 – 1 Stoke City Rovers 3 – Cardiff City 2 4th Round Arsenal 2 – 0 Wolves Rovers 3 – 0 Colchester 5th Round Arsenal 1 – 1 Sheff Utd Inbreds 0 – 0 Rovers Sheff Utd 0 – 0 Arsenal (2-4 on pens) Rovers 2 – 1 Inbreds 6th Round Bolton 0 – 1 Arsenal Rovers 1 – 0 Leicester The roads to Cardiff:- M65 M6 M5 M4

Well thanks to the FA, I am now losing sleep over this. Woke about 3am worrying how I am going to get to Cardiff, where I am going to stay, what it's going to cost etc... and can't get back to sleep now. Some might say it's my own fault for letting Scotty sort out the arrangements but I can't agree. How was he to know, when booking the accommodation, that the Viking Hotel, Newport was in Rhode Island, USA?

At least they've listened to the fans that were moaning that there is only one train from Blackburn prior to kick-off - by moving the kick-off to 12:15 rather than 12:00, you now have 24 minutes to walk from the Station to the Stadium.

Apparantly so. Why are my parents such an embarrassment? I think it's hereditary

Tickets only!? You don't usually need tickets for quiz night!!! ...unless Johnny Sax and his Sax is on of course! Don't tell me they've booked Johnny Sax and his Sax on a night Rovers are at home!? That's going to leave us with an awkward dilemma come half past seven!!

For the hard of acronyming, ENTS = Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist See here. To answer SARs question: no, Burnley has no Ear, Nose and Throat Specialists. The town is awash with Chest, Uterus, Neck and Toe Specialists though. See here.