the dead men THE first thing you notice as you drive along the main drag in Grimsby (and it is a drag) is the proliferation of undertakers' establishments. Roughly every third building caters for the deceased. People are literally dying to get out of Grimsby.

This includes the football club. Despite retaining the name "Grimsby" the ground is actually located just up the road in neighbouring Cleethorpes. Oh yes -- it's glamour all the way in Division One.

Having successfully located the ground, we repair to a nearby hostelry which seems to be housing the majority of the 2,000 travelling Clarets. They in turn appear to be housing the majority of the pub's beer. Well, I say beer, but it's really rust-coloured fluid with a thin layer of effluent on top. Unbelievably, it tastes worse than it sounds.

At the bar, one supping Burnleyite tells me he has abandoned his wife and recently-born child for the day just so he can come and watch his team. However, I would imagine that come five o'clock he was positively yearning to change nappies and prepare baby food.

Once inside Blundell Park, I am delighted to discover our home for the afternoon is the Osmond Stand. With something approaching feverish excitement I scan the back of my ticket to see if any other stands are named after 70s pop stars of dubious talent. Alas, not (unless there was once a band called the John Smith Bitter Stand).

On the pitch, neither side are helped by the eccentric refereeing of Premiership reject Uriah Rennie whose philosophy seems to be thou shalt not make a decision which has anything to do with the game you are actually reffing.

Meanwhile Ian Moore, whose confidence has sunk so low it is now positively subterranean, fluffs a brace of one-on-ones. The lad needs a couple of goals. Soon.

He does well however, to fire over a cross in front of the Osmond Stand which Steve Davis somehow manages to head over the bar whilst simultaneously being directly underneath it. My personal opinion is that the skipper was simply overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur and beauty of the Osmond Stand. Possibly.

Grimsby's winner, a free header from a corner, is as inevitable as it is depressing. Walking back to the coach past one of the many undertaker's establishments, a voice behind me pipes up: "We had the chances. We should have buried them."