SATURDAY does not get off to the best possible start. This is due to a combination of payback from the previous night's merriment, coupled with the view from my front window, which suggests Burnley could rival Salt Lake City as a Winter Olympics venue.

Battling both blizzard and hangover I eventually arrive at Turf Moor resembling a badly dishevelled snowman. Sitting dripping on the coach my mood is not enhanced by the barrage of too loud country and western music emanating from the radio.

En route to Cheshire both the weather and my hangover clear up, and before I know it we are at Gresty Road. Clarets supporters are housed in the bizarrely monickered Charles Audi and BMW Bluebell Stands. And if you think that's bad, pity the home fans who populate the Railtrack Stand and, wait for it, the Advance Personnel Stand.

If you swallow the hype about Crewe you will believe that Dario Gradi's teams pass the ball better than any team in the history of football. Ever. ("They know no other way" blubbered a hysterical BBC commentator recently).

This is shown to be true as early as the 19th minute, as Gareth Taylor's shot inspires Shaun Smith to play an intricate one-two off his own goalpost and into the net. They know no other way, you see.

The unfortunate Smith's afternoon goes from bad to worse. Some patrons of the Bluebell Stand believe him to be Simian in appearance and are not slow to inform him.

"Oi, monkeyboy!" yelled one while another muses aloud whether the Crewe left back starred as an extra in the recent remake of Planet of the Apes. (Smith it should be pointed out, is white, lest accusations of racism are levelled at Clarets fans).

In the second half Alan Moore's exquisite curling shot is a contender for goal of the season. Meanwhile, the Bluebell's target in the second half is Efe Sodje, sporting a blue bandana and inviting chants of "He's got a teatowel on his head" and "Teatowel, teatowel, what's the score?"

The Clarets see out a nervy final 10 minutes emerging with three points after a job well done.

Finally, thank you, thank you, thank you, to the football Gods who have seen fit to grant us side-splitting comedy come autumn when Division One's Blackburn Rovers will entertain the masses in Europe.

So, what's it to be this time lads? Fisticuffs in Russia again? Or another early exit at the hands of Swedish carpet layers and bank tellers? The nation holds its breath . . .