OK, this was My Plan: Friday night, long week, just finished a meeting with an incredibly tedious publishing bloke at 7pm that was meant to finish at 5pm, so decided to pop into the "Pass n' Punt" sports bar with the intention of downing a quick pint of "Macs Gold" and shooting off home to the family. 

Reality: 4 hours later, I was standing outside the bar in the pouring rain, trying to prop up a vary large, very drunk man, whilst talking to a policeman and trying to explain that my name was truly spelt like that, and no, I wasn’t “pulling his salami”. 

Let me explain how this turn of events came about, and what and how it is in anyway relevant to this site or being a poor exiled hoop <screen goes all wiggly as we go back in time>…. 

7pm and in I stroll.  The bar is a typical sports bar, open plan, bar down one side, scattered high tables and bar stools and several big screens at either end.  At this time on a Friday it was just starting to warm up, and I guess there was about forty people in there, some drinking and talking, some playing the “Pokies” (fruit machines) and some watching some rugby game or other on the screens.  So far so good. 

I spent quite a lot of time in here during the world cup watching the England matches, and due to the time difference, I was basically in here for breakfast.  Now when you order grub, they ask your name, and when it’s ready they shout out your name, loudly.   To amuse myself, I started ordering food as “Rodney Marsh”, “Mick Leach”, “Paul Furlong” etc.   

I’d missed dinner, so I ordered a pint, and decided that a toasted sarnie might not be a bad idea.  I got my pint and as I ordered a big toasted doorstep in the name of “Stan Bowles” got nudged so hard I nearly broke my teeth on the glass!   

Tired and hungry, I turned around ready to do the whole “you spilt my pint” thing only to be confronted by a huge, tattooed and dreadlocked monster.  For a moment my head was full of those half-Orc things from Lord of the Rings, and I briefly wondered whether all the bananas I’d smoked as an art student were coming back to haunt me.   

“Ay there Stan, you like the old cheese and ham eh?”  It said.   This could have been a defining moment in my life; the headlines reading something like “Big-nosed pom in hooped shirt eaten by mythical character in Sports bar” but for some reason the overall scariness was counteracted by the amenable, and almost daft broad grin that split the huge rat-tailed head in half like a shovel mark in dry clay. 

Believe me, I tried to be polite and sit down after First Contact, but having spent a couple of minutes trying to explain that my name wasn’t actually Stan, only to then have to say “over here” when they called out my “Stan? Stan Bowles?”.  This seemed to confuse and slightly irritate My New mate, so I thought it best to go with the flow…

Basically, I'd been collared by this enormous lunatic from one of the Pacific islands called Moto (which apparently translates as “punch in the face”; this, believe it or not, was the name his parents game him at birth…), complete with full thigh and stomach tattoos which he insisted on showing me (done with sharpened sticks and ink - jeeeeezuuuussss....) who after five minutes of “where you from/got any kids/do you play rugby?” spent the next four hours drinking beer at an astonishing rate (“want another on Bro?” “nah – I’m driving” every fifteen minutes…) trying to explain to me the following: 

1. The rules of Rugby league, which seem to be kill the man with the ball six times in a row, then it's their turn.
2. Why Rugby League is a man’s game and Rugby Union is for schoolgirls.
3. Why England were “lucky” to win the Rugby World Cup in 2003

I in turn did my very best to explain

1. Who Stan Bowles REALLY was
2. Why it’s called “Football” not “Soccer” (They call Rugby “football” over here…)

At one point I got fed up with this and explained that “Rugby” was invented at “Rugby School” in England, therefore the game was called “Rugby”, not Football.    Moto responded by saying “let’s arm wrestle for it”.

“What?”  I said

“Arm wrestles you for it”

“For what” I said

“See what it’s called Bro” It said.

Before I knew it he’d positioned himself directly opposite me and offered this tree-trunk with a hand on the end of it.  Seriously, for those of you that remember failed Rangers performing-circus-midget defender Danny Murphy from a few years back – this bloke's forearms were bigger than his thighs!!

As I wondered what I was going to do next, fate stepped in.    or rather I should say “Chynna” stepped in.  “C’mon then Mot’” says this powerfully built (basically overweight but you can tell her….) lady with a piercing through her forehead and a small terrier dog in a handbag.  Much hilarity then broke out and a small crowd gathered as these two Leviathans squared up to each other… in the hubbub I managed to take my pint and escape, intending to make a quick exit.

Needles to say – within thirty seconds the pub had gone from a lively but happy place into The Battle for Helms Deep, this time fought not between Elves, Humans and orcs, but between basically anyone within reach!   Girls hit men, men hit men, and I could see by the resigned look on the bar staffs faces that this wasn’t exactly uncommon.

I cleverly did a “Lee Cook” and sidestepped the ensuing fracas, and got outside to my car, just in time to see the police arrive, who conveniently were next door in Burger King’s car park being sneaky with their speed camera.    The car park was soon full of drunk people, either bruised, crying, bleeding or all of the above. I tried, honestly I did, to just get into my car and drive away, but the men in hats wanted witnesses, and I wasn’t long before I was trying to explain for the twentieth time that night that, no, my name wasn’t Stan Bowles and I have not in fact, up until tonight, ever laid eyes on these people before.

In the words of the Artic Monkeys “They all got their names took” and that was that.

On Sunday morning I was feeling very much “A stranger in a strange land”.  A year or so ago I was sitting in my seat in MU block, Upper Loft, feeling the normal rollercoaster of emotions that you get as a QPR fan, but at least the other 12000 other people there were feeling it with me. They don’t even know who Stan Bowles is for Christ sake!

Now I was the other side of the world, wandering down the beach wearing my favourite 2000 millennium home shirt with a take-away coffee in an attempt to cheer myself up from the loss away to Sheffield Wednesday.  

My head was full of “When will JG bring in some defenders on loan? Why don’t we have video replays to stop idiotic penalties being awarded?” and I only snapped back to reality when a car slowed down on the beach road, the window rolled down and in a broad cockney accent I heard “You RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR’s!”.

I waved at the departing saviour of my mood, and continued my stroll – somehow with just one other to share the pain, things seemed better.  

Now, when I look back at the games I missed through silly things like “a bit of a cold” or “a visit from the mum-in-law” I could cry.   Take it from me, if you can get to a home game, go.  If you can follow the team away, go.   The more people that are there, the better, for all sorts of reasons….