With snow encasing the UK like a massy, all conquering blanket of...snow, the prospect of Wycombe away – set in the delightfully bucolic enclave of Adams Park – being postponed was looking pretty likely at 11am. Unfortunately, their undersoil heating – and the notable absence of a cohabiting rugby team – meant the pitch was in ludicrously pristine condition.
There weren’t even any transport issues: bike, then train, then shuttle bus, all running in creepy harmony without so much as a patch of black ice to jazz things up. We had to bloody play.
I’ve been to some cold places (Oh I’ve travelled boy) but you aren’t normally standing stock still, essentially pleading for the finger-paralysing cold to permeate your very soul. Nor do you feel obliged to go into a very sad looking marquee and suck down a freezing bottle of Heineken for no other reason than the unshakeable muscle memory of being at a football match.
Filled up with frozen beer, padded with 7 layers, and surrounded by 700 other freaks similarly buoyed by the tantalising, against-all-odds draw on Saturday, I was ready for the game