You know what they say? Walk a mile in my shoes and we might have to share verucas too. Going to Wigan for the xxth (oh, look it up, it’s a lot) time has its special joys of course, but it’s a depressing journey up there.
I see the first coach of English Defensive League marchers heading south just after Luton. After 20 coaches, I stop counting. They may have been - apparently - founded by some Luton MIGs, they may claim Jewish sections (hmmmm); they may claim gay sections (self-hate alert) and they may claim Hindu and Sikh members (it‘s an India/Pakistan thing), but it’s a racist rather than a rainbow coalition. They’re to the British National Party (not entirely coincidentally, the former home of leader “Tommy Robinson”), what the British Movement were to the National Front. And just because their Fuhrer “Tommy Robinson” turns white bodies to brown at his tanning salon; just because he can’t pronounce the Sharia Law he’s obsessed with; just because a near-giggling Jeremy Paxman didn’t know where to start with him and just because he has a troubling fixation with what he seems to see as our nation being overrun by rampaging gangs of Muslim paedophiles, doesn’t mean his organisation is a joke, much as I‘ve always thought that laughing at these people is the best weapon. They’ve bit into a rotten nerve and while they won’t get the race war they’re trying to incite, they’re not going to let go any day soon. Oh dear, oh dear. Anyway, how’s your stuff going?
The way the planets are aligning, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone behind you in stationary traffic on the M6 were to get out of his car, knock on your window, call you a “cunt” and return to said vehicle. On the way home, it happens. He’s not joking and I’m not surprised.
In contrast with, say, Stevenage, Wigan may charge for wi-fi but it’s an oasis of loveliness. “The food,“ you say, “but tell us about the food, please.“ The food is OK but no more, thanks for asking: undercooked chips which stick together, a passable steak pie and combative tomato soup during half-time. Better still, I’m sat next to Myles Hodgson from The Independent who’s a joy to cackle along with. And the game, oh the game. It’s 4-3 local derby on a bog of a pitch and just as spine-tingling as the scoreline implies. Sadly it’s on a vintage Premier League day, so I haven’t the space to wax as lyrical as I‘d like.
Clavane from the SM is here too. He’s wearing a red coat and still has his fine, Melvyn Bragg-esque head of hair. I offer him a lift home, but he’s heading east. I thank him for mentioning me in his book Promised Land, say how good it is (it is) and how marvellous at self-promotion - he even suggests a mention in this blog - he is.
As Oscar Wilde never said, being thanked in books is better than not being mentioned I guess, even if it’s abuse. One author detailed an encounter we’d had and noted how ghastly I was (I deny the charges; not so much on the grounds that I’m not ghastly, more that said encounter didn’t happen) before using my name on the cover. His request for Facebook friendship has gone unacknowledged. Petty I know. But he started it.
I’m getting increasingly attached to Wigan. They’re worth the three points, but God they’re so fragile it’s like watching Isodora Duncan out there. And much as I’m not really a fan of Sam, Blackburn have gone sideways since he was ousted and they’re not immune to fragility themselves. Afterwards, new manager Steve Kean blames his midfield for losing possession too often, rather than his defence and his peculiar deployment of personnel. They really miss Phil Jones and Jermaine Jones isn’t the answer. Chris Coleman always rated Kean exceptionally highly, but I’m not sure he’s in it long term, less so I’d wager since Steve McClaren has been seen frequenting Job Centres.
Afterwards before I'm visited, I'm, speeding through the dark night, driving through the pounding rain, I’ve got a warm post-match glow. There’s average chips, there’s the extreme right and there’s weird men in stationary cars to contend with, but still the football shows us there can be life-affirming goodness. Just like it always did.

Playlist
Justin Hayward
Forever Autumn
A bit wimpy, I know, but that doesn’t make it wrong. And on Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version Of The War Of The Worlds, interspersed with Richard Burton’s sepulchral tones, it’s truly astonishing and genuinely moving. “You always loved this time of year...“ The new Keren Ann album’s good too.
On Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version Of The War Of The Worlds. Try the remastered 2006 version.