It's a great weekend.
An early finish, Friday and home to rendezvous with brother, Bruce. We speed down toward the Flatlands, the boot of my car packed to the gunnels with alcohol, our sole concession to catering being the cholesterol enhanced breakfast goodies tucked safe behind the wine.
The miles melt away and before long we pull up onto the pebbled drive of the legendary Shed of electrofried. The log-burner lit and a glass or two despatched it's off in search of some supper. The White Hart does us proud and so to serious stuff. We pour whisky and talk long into the night.
The next morning comes all too soon and time for the breakfast goodies to be unleashed. One mad dervish of sausagery, bacon, mushrooms, egg and tomato washed down with mugs of tea and the odd round or two of toast. Suitably refreshed for the day we head out once more for a warming spring walk in the neighbouring forest.
Time for reflection and little head-clearing before.. the big event!
We make good time to the nearest Park and Ride and then onto Norwich city centre. But a short walk to Carrow Road and we're greeted by the traditional East Anglian wailing of a somewhat implausible drum 'n' bagpipe combo. Undaunted by the massed ranks of swirling tartan we head into the ground, pausing only to sample the delights of the local hot-dog emporium.
Closeted deep in the bowels of the stadium we watch the remnants of Chelsea's annihilation of the lame Gunners before making our way up the concreted stairs to our seats and a swaying swarm of red and white stripes. What joys!
Until the match begins.
And then it's over all too soon and we head back nursing a two nil hangover. Only a restorative curry will suffice before the weary Roker boys return to the Shed and a well-earned doze before the flickering TV.
What a great weekend - thank you so much, brother!!
