Off, then, to Bolton for what seems to be the first time this season. That's OK, I guess. It's an odd, unsettling journey up there and, as is usually the case going to Bolton, I think of my fallen comrade John Bauldie. This time, though, my defences are down and it's especially acute, especially when the Reebok appears like magic as I head up the M61. Daft as it sounds, it's a little like Manhattan when you saunter in from JFK, but, lest we forget, a visit to Manhattan doesn't involve wondering why Johan Elmander gets a game. Anyway, I wish John could have seen the Reebok, I wish he'd been able to go to Europe with Bolton, I wish he'd been able to point out the flaws in my reporting, I wish I'd been able to say goodbye (but not as much as I wish I hadn't had to) and I wish he could run his David Ackles theory past me one more time. I know life isn't meant to be fair, but surely it isn't meant to be that unfair.
Thinking of John makes me think too of the last time I did Bolton and Aston Villa here. I came home and did something I thought was ever so brave. It wasn't. It was wrong-headed and cowardly and that I paid for it - and that things turned out remarkably well after I'd stopped paying - is neither here nor here.
That said, it was a fine day from the moment Ryan of the MOS tapped on my window in the car park and caught me reading Simone de Beauvoir's essay on Sade (the Marquis, rather than the chanteuse) which would have pretentious were it not genuine. He's got a surreal - sadly unrepeatable for all sorts of reasons - tale to tell and we watch the Villa team skip off their coach (Hallmark but not their absolute top range I fear) to loud encomium from the Villa fans who haven't found themselves a pub (there's a reason for that in Horwich; perhaps it's a Quaker suburb).
Inside, the pies are OK - far better than the over-rated ones at Wigan - the mushy peas excellent. There's even a sighting of Clavane of the SM and I get to sit next to the ever amiable Baxter of the MEN.
The game isn't exactly attention-grabbing. Bolton are awful, but Villa are livelier than of late.. Even so, I have too few words to really paint the pictures in my head, but no matter there's still art to be gleaned.
Afterwards, Martin O'Neill is more circumspect than he was at Chelsea, but he's had a peculiar week of blowing his own trumpet, something he's usually too smart to do. Owen Coyle is cagey too and he denies my suggestion that they played like they knew they were safe. We both agree they're not safe now, but surely Bolton won't fall. I'm just not sure where Villa are going at all. I don't think anyone is right now.
Afterwards I offer Clavane of the SM a lift south. I put him right on some things; he puts me right on others. Not such a bad day after all, then.


Playlist
Roxette
Hits! A Collection Of Their 20 Greatest Songs
Go on. Laugh all you like. I don't care. They're not absolutely top drawer, but Sleeping In My Car, Fading Like A Flower (Every Time You Leave) and Milk And Toast And Honey came close.