Blackburn, 14 February, 2009

Off, then, to Blackburn once more. On Friday, I had an old man style fall, tumbling from the step outside our house, which is, if we're exaggerating in a male-ish way, two inches high. As I fell, I heard that strange kind of ligament-ripping noise Jimmy Bullard must have to listen to every time he gets out of bed. And so with a foot the size of a beach ball and the colour of an aubergine and a really poorly finger, I drove to Blackburn, presumably to see Rovers ease Coventry out of the FA Cup, but then again, no.
Rovers's second string ensemble were one up in two minutes and clearly the prospect of not progressing didn't occur. They fell asleep and were forced to rescue things in the last minute when the Premier League's clumsiest defender, Christopher Samba, belted an equaliser beyond Andy Marshall, who'd fumbled.
Hobbling up and down the stairs at Blackburn - and Ewood Park is full of stairs, believe me - I didn't like the pain, or the looks of wordless sympathy which assumed my condition was permanent, although genuinely disabled people tend not to go "ooh, ow, ooh" every time they move.
They're a funny club, Blackburn. They'd clearly much prefer to be left to their own small town without any press coverage whatsoever, which, presumably, is why they contract their press relations out to an agency in Preston when almost every other club employs a full-time press office. It's hard to blame them since all the stories about Rovers concern players wanting to leave, so why bother?
And without taking a cheap shot at a doughty mill town, let's be frank, who actually wants to come to Blackburn? After all, even Jack Walker lived in the Channel Islands. But, the people there are sweetness itself. I chanced a fish pie which was almost inedible, but the woman who served it was so nice I said it was lovely. There you go.
Afterwards, Sam Allardyce is on typically mumbling form and the hacks typically grumpy at all the re-writes Samba's equaliser forced them to do. He's been and gone before anyone can ask him why he picked a team with such a slapdash approach, but the truth is he doesn't care about the FA Cup.
In contrast, Chris Coleman sees the FA Cup as his salvation, his way of obscuring his team's average league showing. He's cock-a-hoop (relatively at least, it's hard to tell with him) at his injury ravaged team's second-half performance. Not in a combative mood, I even lob him an easy one, asking what he said at half-time. He didn't flinch in taking the credit, which all things considered is fair enough.
God, my foot hurt on the way home.