Grimsby away, February 2002.
Quite the event.
Started off the day with our van crashing into a roundabout because of the ice.
Had a bit of a kickabout on the beach to keep warm, when an escaped mental patient wanted to join in. He ran around shouting racial epithets before falling over and having an asthma attack, so we had to call him an ambulance.
Then Paul Peschisolido hit a screamer in the pre-match warm up, which simultaneously dislocated my middle finger and caused me to drop freshly-poured Bovril on my bollocks, and as we all know, Bovril is an unusual substance, which somehow still remains liquid at 2000 degrees celsius, cheers Paul.
Then a massive scrap broke out in the away end between pro and anti Neil Warnock factions, easily proving to be more entertaining than the utter tosswankery on display from the team.
Then after the match (lost 1-0), our contingent of 17 year old gobshites got into a fight with some local 17 year old gobshites outside the amusements, and I must say I did fairly well without the use of my left hand (thanks again Paul). I courageously twatted the smallest one in their group and then left the bigger boys to it.
The day's events came to an end when a copper told us to fuck off home or get nicked. At which point, we clambered back into the knackered van and successfully drunk-drove all the way back to Sheffield.
Leaving Grimsby is always a source of immense pleasure, but none more so than that day...