The Blessed St Peter

After a fantastic night at the pub last night with some folks who I don't get to see anywhere near often enough, today was all a bit of a fuzzy affair. To tell the truth, I was more or less dreading three o'clock, and the kick-off of a pivotal match in Albion's relegation battle. After all, losing six matches on the trot with some truly abysmal performances does tend to sap confidence somewhat. Still, even if I wasn't really a glowing ball of positivity, I was in my seat at the appointed hour, prepared for the worst.

In my years of exile from the West Midlands, my neighbours have presumably grown used to the strange cries and groans that emanate from our house between three and five o'clock on most Saturdays. Even so, I don't think they were quite ready for the symphony they got treated to today. Subjected to one of the most exciting - and nerve-shredding - matches I've seen in ages, it was impossible to keep quiet. During my 90-minute emotional rollercoaster, I covered just about every feeling on the spectrum with gusto, watching Blackpool take the lead, us equalise and subsequently go ahead, the Tangerines make it level pegging once more, only for St Peter to volley home the winner with minutes to go. The defending was desperate, the attacking was assured, the goals were a joy to watch (even Blackpool's, I have to admit) and the action was non-stop. In other words, it was the perfect advertisement for Premier League football, and I dearly hope both teams can stay up to repeat the fixture next season.

We're getting there, bit by bit. Today at least, the Lord's my shepherd, and St Peter is his disciple. Boing boing.