Pies

Went to football Saturday in Plymouth. After some time gallivanting around Central Park, geocaching, obv (during which time I slipped and rolled down a muddy bank, trying to take a shortcut, and ended up looking like a tramp. Luckily, I had taken M's advice and shaved: "Should I leave off shaving today?", "No, it makes you look ill". "Oh, not moody and gallic, like Eric Cantona?". "No, ill"). So having brushed myself off, I approached Home Park to see the mighty Leicester thrash Argyle 6-0, except that it was just 22 boys kicking a ball around in a muddy place. No control, no decision taking, no passes that went anywhere. Crap really. And one all.

Leicester being the home of Pukka Pies (and Balti Pies), "You can stick your f*ckin Ginsters up yer arse" was quite funny in a basic sort of way. Being told by a steward that I can't use a "Digicam" (a what?) pissed me off. So I left early, but due to the vagaries of the railway system caught the same train as I would have done.
Either football is crap or I shouldn't go on my own