You know what they say: if you don't have any friends, that's probably because you're pretty dislikeable. And so it proves. I drive up to Blackburn, pausing only to wonder whether.... But then I decide not to think about it. It's for the best.
I don't mind Blackburn. Really. Their press arrangements may be weird (I'd wager they may become less weird if/when the takeover happens, but what do I know?), but the people are properly friendly (there's a faux friendly nothernness which that line from GBH - and I'm paraphrasing since I can't remember it exactly - "you know what we mean when we say 'friend'," encapsulated rather well) and their hackfood of Lancashire Hot Pot was surprisingly edible for an naturally inedible dish.
But to go back to friends for the third time in three paragraphs, I don't know a soul, bar one and when I strike up a conversation he's pretty hostile, so fuck him. Blackburn Rovers against Everton isn't a bad or off-kilter game, but the none of the usual mob are here and the hackbox feels more like a creche. Maybe it's a sign of the times; maybe not. Maybe it's me; maybe not. I don't know, I really don't. I do know I'm going to do an age survey when I can remember.
The game's quite entertaining. Rovers are fine, if typically overly-cautious after the giddiness of a Tim Howard-assisted opener. Everton, though, are lacking in all areas, as if they hadn't bothered doing tactics in pre-season training, while Louis Saha doesn't seem to have done any pre-season training whatsoever. Fair result, fair game although as the scores filtered through, it was clear the real interest lay elsewhere. Still, it could have been worse.
Afterwards, David Moyes is better value than usual. Being honest about what everyone in the room has seen usually takes the pressure off and he even gracefully takes my point about his team dominating possession but not creating a chance of note.
Sam Allardyce is his usual un-self-doubting self. When he's praising the excellent Phil Jones, he announces "you don't need a trained eye like mine to see what a quality player he is" but I'm the only one to raise an eyebrow. As Dionne Warwick And, um, Friends Said: that's what friends are for.
It's still light when I leave. The phone call doesn't come. A shame in a way.

Playlist

Burn It Down
Dexys Midnight Runners
Burn It Down
What a tasteful youth I was. In this respect if no other. All together now: "Oscar Wilde and Brendan Behan. Sean O'Casey, George Bernard Shaw. Samuel Beckett, Eugene O'Neill, Edna O'Brien and Lawrence Stern". Is this the moment to admit I didn't (and still don't) know who Lawrence Stern is. Unless they spelt "Laurence" and "Sterne" wrong. They did, didn't they?