"I bet you warmed up, pretty quick, eh?" he nudge-nudged, touching my shoulder. I smiled. What can you do? The next morning, we arrived again, this time no less tired, but having suffered not quite so much from the cold, due to a rise of two or three degrees in the ambient temperature.
"How did you sleep last night?"
"OK. Not great, but at least it wasn't so cold."
"Well, you get used to the cold after a while, don't you?"
"Maybe, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as the night before."
"I bet you still found a way to keep out the cold though, eh?"
After the exertions and the sadness, London - with its toilets and heating - beckoned once again, and then a trip to Littlehampton which meant that there were only Twitter updates for the Arsenal match. Balotelli had already been in the news for crashing his car into some kid, and allegedly crashing his cock into a couple of prostitutes, so it was inevitable that he should again be the focal point of yet another crushing 90 minutes of football, resulting in a Gooners win, and annoying references from their fans to the Poznan. As I didn't see the match, have not (and will not) watched MOTD2, and cannot bring myself to read a newspaper report of the game, I don't know if Mario was entirely at fault for us losing. It can't help of course to get sent off, but from what I saw on the MCFC Twitter feed (I hold this ridiculous 'together' hashtag largely responsible for the decline in our fortunes as a matter of fact) we were lucky not to have conceded 2 or 3 before their goal went in.
Ten points the gap to Arsenal now, and not inconceivable that it will be chipped away by season's end. Never mind the fucking Rags clinching the title at the Etihad, we could even drop to third spot. Good old City.