You know what they say: new season, new opening line. These are the strangest of times. And yet, and yet, and yet, I haven't felt this upbeat about a new season in years. Nothing's happened, I'm sure it'll all turn to tears by about October and doubtless there's pain, misery and heartache to come, but right now the sun is shining
Doing something for the last time is always unsettling (if I die tomorrow this is still just the normal guff; if I knew I was going to die tomorrow everything would have poignancy) and before 8am, I've done something for the last time in my life.
Even so, I sail up to Burnley (not literally, that would be tricky), through the vicious M1 roadworks and up the M66. Just after Accrington, I'm passed by a footballer. He's driving like a tabloid would expect a footballer to drive, ie somewhere between pre-comeback Michael Schumacher and a comedy drunk. Lights are flashed. Now, although this isn't to my credit, I'm reasonably macho about twatty drivers, so I simply drift (I can't give him the gratification of instant movement) into the inside lane in my own time, making the internationally recognised signal for masturbation as he speeds by. I'd love to tell you who he is, but his windows are tinted and I don't know (I have a peak at the players' car park afterwards: his is there) and without suggesting I have esp, I don't know how I knew it was a footballer either. But I do know he's going to kill himself if he carries on like that. Seriously.
I even get a parking pass with my name on it (I know, I know I'm acting like a 14-year-old again, but things aren't always so straight-forwards). Burnley's perfect-bound programme seems to be made out of toilet paper and their so-called meat'n'potato pie is the same astronaut-food-grey as their so-called mushy peas. Curiously, it tastes better than it looks.
Richard Jolly's here, which always personally and sometimes professionally is a good sign. He's already as cynical as October and he always makes me laugh like a drain. Chirs Moore's here too, so, ahem, nothing can go wrong.
Things start to go wrong just before kick-off. I've lost my phone. Really. We've been around the world together, we've been in terrible states together, we've been in an absent-minded rush together and it's never happened before. It can't be far since I'd used it in the car park to commune with the office. I get Richard to call it. No reply. Eek. Perhaps an urchin has found it. Eventually I ask Pete the helpful PR. There's one been found. Hurrah.
I realise that as anecdotes go, it's hardly one to take to the talk shows, but there's a general malaise here. One hack loses - and then finds - his car keys and at 6pm another discovers he's somehow lost his match report. It's all very rusty.
Anyway, the match has its moments. Forest are unfortunate when Robert Earnshaw hits the bar and Nathan Tyson misses a sitter, but Burnley's Brian Jensen doesn't have a save to make. I write a shedful of words and everyone's happy.
Afterwards, Brian Laws is relieved - he and Burnley are in their natural home, but their base is stronger than it was two years ago, so you never know - and Billy Davies is as cheeky as ever, his spectacles are admirably rose-tinted and he gives my question a thoughtfully detailed response. I'm not sure being managed by him would be easy, but I'd like to know him better. He might be fun.

Playlist
Donna Summer
I Feel Love
The sound of an actual new music being invented and it still sounds ahead of its time today. Astonishing and beneath all the boundary-pushing, a chorus The Beatles would have envied.

Moment of Zen: it wasn't the phone call. It was a phone call.