Who are ya? Grrrr. The anger and phlegm, quite frankly, has been rising in me as the week has got longer. I am not a well man, I'm really not. Oh and I'm angry too. Bloody Palarse come to Charlton on Friday night and where will I be? I'll be in some rented 10mpg lump of a North American car driving from Napanee in Ontario to Toronto Airport, 144 miles all told. And it is going to snow like it's bloody Christmas Day in Lapland.

I would of course rather be in the pub meeting my mates at 2pm, like they are or if I was allowed a second choice, sat at home on my sofa with my cyber ex-pat chums on Charlton Life, anything but driving through Ontario.

I hate Palace I really do, sorry if that's a bit strong and irrational. I'm middle aged (ooh, didn't like writing that), half intelligent and often quite rational but, apologies, that is how I have felt for a long time.

Team of the 80's, the floodlights turning off, the portacabin, Ron Noades, Arthur Waite, their googly-eyed supporters, Eddie McGoldrick, the Orange one, men beating kids up on trains. They are not worth a toss, and I would love to join in with others tomorrow to express those emotions but I can't, I will just sit there driving the unploughed roads through snowy Canada mumbling grumpily to myself, oh and coughing like a old man too.

Everyone in that ground tomorrow with red and white on your back (the players included perlease) and red and white in your soul, make them lot from Croydon feel as insignificent and unwelcome as is possible. Come on you reds.  ¶ 19:50