Off, then, to Doncaster's Keepmoat Stadium for the first time ever. The newness dulls the pain. As a kid, I used to love going to Belle Vue, especially for night games. It was a horrible, decrepit place worth revelling in and one which encapsulated a football that's gone forever now. Last time I went, they boiled a kettle for my tea. Away teams must have hated their visits and I'll bet the showers were neither power nor warm.
Encapsulating a football that's here forever now, the Keepmoat is on an industrial estate on the edge of town, but the man I hand over my parking five to says "have a lovely afternoon, sir" which brings a little warm glow to my heart. As I must at a new ground, I walk around. Disgracefully, there's no moat (Why aren't I in urban planning? Why, Lord?), but there is a small club shop where Chairman John Ryan is late for a book signing - couldn't somebody would write a book on the Ken Richardson years and, while we're at it, what did happen to Mark Weaver? - and a wall of gibberish where some bricks say "Donny for life" etc etc.
Alan Green's chum Mark Clemmit is doing his shtick outside. He's too puppy-dog annoying and too inane for some tastes, but I'm rather taken with his all-smiling 'can-do', camp northern approach. He's here because if West Bromwich Albion win, they're up, hence an atmosphere some might call "carnival" but not me because it isn't.
The hackbox is perfectly fine, although the hackfood - a sort of flavoured pork pie and a ghastly cream bun - isn't, but in front of me a smiling man has stocked up with biscuits and he goes around the hackbox offering some to all. Another warm glow. I like it here, even if the wi-fi eludes me.
The game is a delight, end to end stuff, the outstanding Jay Emmanuel-Thomas and more goals than I've got fingers on one hand (assuming we accept the notion that a thumb isn't a finger; contentious stuff I know) and at the end Albion are hanging on like Harold Lloyd.
Afterwards, we're told that Doncaster manager Sean O'Driscoll doesn't like people moving during press conferences, which means I won't be doing my customary press-conference aerobics. What a fascinating man he is and what did happen with him and Burnley? In his programme notes he said he'd popped down to Plymouth to see a midweek game and check on their next opponents, Argyle, who promptly won at the Keepmoat. Assuming there's no other reason for such an expedition, that's astonishing dedication for a end-of-season game, although it can't have helped that he must have missed some training. Talking to him is like talking to Lou Reed: that's something I've never thought about a football manager before.
Understandably, Roberto Di Matteo takes ages, doesn't say much other than when I ask him if he'd ever thought his team wouldn't make it and he says no. Mark Clemmit decides - unprompted - to butt in. He doesn't seem to notice the hacks scowling at him. I do like a thick skin. Wish mine was thicker.
It's still sunny when I leave. Is reverse seasonal affective disorder a registered condition? It bloody well should be.

Playlist
John Holt
Ali Baba
Much as he didn't seem to like me ("you ask questions like a cunt"), I quite liked Paul Weller. And much as his solo work is hard going sometimes and his taste is often questionable, he has his moments and he loves this. Magically sung by one of reggae's finest voices, an unforgettable chorus and a big bass throb. Yes please.