Crawley 10K - err, and stuff

[Sweder]

It's knocking on 2 am UK time and I'm pacing up and down 4000 miles away chomping on a badly-rolled spliff looking not unlike Mickey, erstwhile trainer and grizzled old bastard from Rocky. I hope I don't suffer the same fate; Mickey famously copped a fatal heart-attack during one of the sequels leading to a quite dreadful, snot-ridden post-fight eulogy from the Battered One.

What I mean to say is this must surely be, after the curious case of the Beach Ball In The Six Yard Box at the Stadium of Light (it was, it should be noted, a Liverpool liveried beach ball, presumably poked onto the pitch by some traveling Scousers and subsequently ignored by the away team, ultimately to their chagrin), THE sporting event of the weekend and I won't be there. So, here's wishing our two gladiators the very best of British. May the road rise to meet you, may you be in heaven an hour before the Devil knows you're dead, and I hope that first post-race pint tastes as good as my Guinness will (in 20 minutes' time) in Hurleys tonight.

Cue title music ...