Pre-match ritual - Stamford Bridge

Whichever way one goes, the journey from Muswell Hill to Stamford Bridge normally takes about an hour and forty. Any combination of taxi, tube, bus, foot or car always amounts to the same thing. Assuming it's a Saturday fixture, in itself a thing of the past, I would take The Guardian (+ whatever other reading matter was left in the tube carriage), careful to make sure that I only ended up with the Sports section by the time I reached The Tup.

Once in situ, a bottle of crispy white to hand with a bowl of chips (+ a tuna sandwich from Tesco Metro), The Sports section and Jeff Stelling on the telly. I would simply sit back and wait for the pub to fill up. The regulars like Flash, Mongo, Big X, Ross and the beardy bloke with the numerous hawaiian shirts would come in and take up their rightful positions along the bar. Never more than a smattering of away fans in this pub, not because of any particular reputation or malice - just too far from Fulham Broadway station. By 1.30 (for a 3 pm kick-off) the majority would be in their own zones. Occasionally Suggs would amble in nursing what looked like the world's most enormous hangover. The banter begins to build, tactics discussed ignored and rehashed, the white wine consumption picking up pace.

By 2.30 Flash and I would be ready to go via the offie for some miniatures, these would be purchased and then cunningly secreted in various pockets, concealed zippers etc and we would then start the stroll down the Fulham Road and happily join the queue for programmes at the entrance by the railway bridge. This was key, if I got a £2 coin in my change we wouldn't lose, if by some chance it didn't happen then the result was very much in doubt!

A few neat sidesteps, pirouettes and blatant shoves and pretending to go to Ladbrokes and we're nearly in, only to be held up by the work experience bloke operating the bloody useless automated ticket system (do you see the flaw?). Then up the stairs, into the loo, read the same 'Talk Sport' ads that had been there since Ken was a boy then if time permitted a cheeky half, up the small stairs and out into the stadium. The lush green turf, the massed ranks of the Chels' and brace myself for a stirring rendition of 'The Liquidator'. Down to row 7, along to seat 136. Introductions done, teams on the pitch, ref ready to blow the whistle - this is what it's all about!