IF ever your correspondent had experienced the cliched game of two halves, then Saturday's 5-2 thumping of Walsall was it.

Allow me to elucidate. Many moons ago, I applied to enter Sunday's Great North Run.

My initial delight at being accepted for the event was tempered by the revelation that I had to reach my accommodation the night before in Durham by early evening which would mean leaving Turf Moor at half time.

So it was that I spent most of the opening 45 minutes urging the Clarets to attack with reckless abandon in the hope that Burnley would amass a three-goal lead, making the journey to the North East as stress-free as possible.

They very nearly managed it.

Gareth Taylor's superbly executed header and Ian Moore's predatory strike at least put us on the right track.

Leaving Turf Moor, I felt reasonably confident that from that position the Clarets would finish the job off. Fool.

The 10 minute walk from ground to car found me wracked with guilt. I'd never walked out on Burnley before.

And what for? The opportunity to put my body through just over 13 miles of acute pain.

Minutes into the journey my folly was exposed, as news came through of Walsall's first goal. What now?

Should I turn back having realised the error of my ways? After all, this was all my fault.

As I mulled this over, the Saddlers equalised. This was torture. It's bad enough being there and watching your side throw it away.

But to be motoring up the A1 relying on goal flashes from the car radio does not make for comfortable travelling.

Thank God then, for Lee "Goal Machine" Briscoe, whose swift double settled my nerves and allowed me to visibly startle other road users by punching the air whilst simultaneously wearing a contorted expression of joy.

Not a pretty sight.

My moon meanwhile heaving lurched from despair to joy, now veered to outrage, as Paul Cook's audacious 35 yard lob sealed the points.

How dare they do this? How dare they win 5-2, score spectacular goals, and go four points clear at the summit of Division One without me being there?

Running the following day, another thought occurred to me.

Maybe if I always left at half time all Burnley's games would be like this. So tonight, don't be surprised if you see a shadowy figure in running clothes slipping out of St Andrew's about half past eight for a quick jog around Birmingham . . .