NOW don't get me wrong. I love football, in fact I adore everything about it - a crisply hit pass, the ball billowing the back of the opposition's net, the roar of the crowd.

It's the stuff of life.

However, there are times when you feel compelled to think twice about Pele's famed belief that football is "the beautiful game."

One such occasion was last weekend.

The omens were bad from the outset. After refusing a lift to the game from my sister (the first of many mistakes that afternoon), I left for the ground on foot. Barely had I reached the end of the street, before the heavens opened in spectacular fashion delivering a rain storm par excellence.

Just for good measure it was at this exact moment that the wind decided to get in on the act, lending the conditions a monsoon-like quality.

And so, half an hour later and meteorologically mauled, I pitched up at Turf Moor. With my once beige jacket now a rain sodden dark brown, a small lake in each shoe and a minor river running down the back of my neck, I bore all the elegance of a dishevelled canal rat.

Which is when the fun really began. Having dripped and squished my way to my seat, I was substantially less than thrilled to discover that, like myself, it too was waterlogged. Silently fuming, having reluctantly sat down in my allocated puddle I found further cause for complaint. The East stand roof was not doing its job.

Now call me eccentric if you must, but I believe a major function of a roof is to prevent you from getting wet. Otherwise what's the blinking point.

I mused on this as the weather conditions rapidly deteriorated along with my mood.

So you can imagine my delight when Micky Melon dawdled around on the edge of our box, gifting Luton an equaliser. Well, that was it. Let's just say that had Mr Melon heard my vociferous and loudly voiced views on the qualities of his defending he would have been running for the sanctuary of the dressing room long before half time.

Things did not get better. No hot Bovril at half time, Neil Moore stupidly getting himself sent off, a last gasp winner for Luton. All in all it was a thoroughly miserable afternoon. The beautiful game? Ask me in a while when I've dried out and calmed down.

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