I REALISE this makes me sound like a child baulking at the prospect of a trip to the dentist. But do we have to go to places like Norwich?

For a start, there's the travelling it involves. Norwich isn't in the back of beyond. It's about a 1,000 miles further on.

At least that's how it felt on Saturday's 10-hour round trip. That's right, 10 hours. Ludicrously, in the time it takes to travel to Norfolk's premier footballing venue you could fly to Australia. And back. Twice.

And there's the accessibility of the city. Or rather there isn't. It seems the good burghers of East Anglia have yet to be connected to the national motorway network. So it was that coachloads of Clarets spent endless hours negotiating rustic routes which have remained largely unchanged since the industrial revolution, while marvelling at road signs for such bizarrely monickered locations as Diss, Bungay and (my personal favourite) Cackle Hill.

On arrival at our destination, the police kindly directed us to the nearest coach park. Unfortunately, this happens to be closer to Ipswich than Carrow Road, meaning we spent a good half hour yomping over the Norfolk Broads.

With the only pub in time stacked 15 deep at the bar, the only other place to kill time before kick off is the local Morrisons. I am not alone. Scores of Clarets are to be found wandering the aisles. Idly, I wonder if the game should be played here instead, with Burnley kicking towards the fruit and veg in the first half, then towards the pet foods and accessories end for the second.

Once inside Carrow Road we are roundly and richly abused by 17,000 green and yellow clad Worzels whose inpenetrable accents make it difficult to decipher what they are saying. The levels of abuse rise as they take the lead and Burnley struggle.

At half time we are treated to the genuinely surreal spectacle of a seven foot mobile phone with legs, a similarly sized canary and a cat called Splat, jigging about to the rhythm of a drumming troupe. The mind truly boggles.

Things look up in the second half as the Clarets remember how to play, and are perhaps unfortunate not to emerge with a point. They are scuppered by Iwan Roberts, a man who fell from the ugly tree, then climbed back up for another go.

And so back to the coach, to a crowd of gurning Worzels for the short five-hour return journey. Like I said, do we have to go to Norwich?