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I don't know if any of you have had the pleasure of driving a Talbot Samba but, let me assure you, it was the most dogshit car you could drive in 1997.
This is important because that day my brother told me I'd be driving him and his two mates up to Elm Park. This was the first time I'd driven on a motorway in my life and between that car's four speed gearbox and having four adult human males, that piece of shit car couldn't break 50mph on the motorway. Fking awful.
So we get there. I'm wondering if I'm even going to be able to get us back home in that shitbox (which had a 50/50 chance of starting - although you could whack the starter motor thing with a spanner and that'd improve your odds) and then we go into half-time 1-0 down. C*NT!
But in the second half, Tiny John Spencer scores a f**king header (the famous 'I'm your f*cking man' goal) and then Mike Sheron scores a bobbler a few minutes later. I remember celebrating up on a fence. It was the happiest I'd ever been at a match until Zamora did his thing in 2014.
Worst moment was Cantona scoring at roughly 194 minutes against us. Especially because as I was walking to the car I saw some guy full force punch a brick wall out of anger. Eesh!
The only two years I'm missing were when I went to uni in my late 20s. Annoyingly, one of those years I'm short by less than 100 quid I think but it's too late to pay it.
That said, I should be alright. I'll hit 35 years when I'm 53 I think. I want to stop working at 55 though. Because f**k working, man.
Every time there's a storm. Usually one guy has a tree fall on them and some sorry bastard gets stuck trying to retrieve something from a drain and drowns. Proper peasant's death that one.
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