THERE it was, tucked away among the small ads under 'Holidays'. "Delightful North West retreat", it said, "in peaceful surroundings, with lush grass surrounded by mostly modern buildings.

Present occupants go out of their way to be hospitable and give you a relaxing, untroubled stay. Would particularly suit small-time football team and its supporters, down on their luck and in need of confidence boost. Goalkeeper should bring own deckchair or hammock, as unlikely to be bothered by local forwards."

OK, I didn't actually see that ad. But I imagined it, very vividly, last Saturday as I tried to stay awake by thinking how happy Rovers must have made our recent Division One visitors. Reasonably-priced tickets, decent food and drink, a good vantage point, and very little prospect of the home team disturbing an excellent day out.

Watch out, I thought, for Rovers featuring regularly as a nomination for 'best ground visited'. Look out for the visitors section at Ewood expanding, as away fans start to prefer a trip to Blackburn to a trip to Wembley.

And then it changed. Suddenly everyone at the ground knew why football is such an infuriating, addictive, and utterly compelling game. From mounting tension and grumblings, to a heady mixture of relief and elation, delight and bravado, all in the space of a couple of minutes.

But why? How can such a change happen? When the team had played for 82 minutes with all the confidence of a tightrope walker with vertigo, what made Damien Duff try his little shimmy on the left, to set up the cross that Ashley Ward converted? What made Nathan Blake attempt that marvellous swivel that took him sprinting clear of the Tranmere defence to make us all shout like we haven't shouted for months? Was it a spark of individual genius? Or a well-oiled training ground routine that they suddenly remembered?

The answer is important because it's that bit of individuality, that swagger and swish, that we need to put the likes of Tranmere in their rightful place. Our hopes for this season now lie in the hands of Brian Kidd's players. They have the choice, to play it safe and continue to give inferior opposition comfortable afternoons, or to take some risks and give them hell. If Gary Lineker can stop being Mr. Nice Guy in the name of Walker's crisps, then surely our lads can do the same, in the name of Walker's millions!

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.