I HAVE always been puzzled, a bit amused - and I must admit - somewhat disdainful of the fevered football watching fraternity.

Of course, my brothers went as young boys and sat down with all the other lads at the front.

But on Saturday, at the Rovers v Manchester United match, drinking the excellent beer of Thwaites, our local brewer, watching our great local team in our exceptionally well-appointed stadium, I have to confess to feeling a strong surge of pride. Yes! I really wanted Blackburn to win.

Why did I feel it was so important? After all, it's only a game for heaven's sake, but the emotion was quite strong and unexpected, and as I looked around the ground of some 30,000 people I felt that peculiar sense of belonging - the same feeling I used to have when I watched my husband's team play cricket all those years ago.

It's because all of us wanted the same thing, our team to win, but perhaps it's more than that. Funny - it's almost patriotic.

On Saturday, the Rovers didn't win, but on the other hand, they didn't lose so we came away content, and I was filled with admiration for the goalkeeper Brad Friedel, whose brilliant performance made him my hero.

The fact that he's bald and that I have a 'thing' for bald men has nothing to do with it!

But football has changed. Over the years, big money decides who plays where and at what time.

No more the traditional Saturday three o'clock kick- off, and long gone are the days when buses lined up on Bridge Street, the anxious waiting for the 'Pink,' Ronnie Clayton's paper shop, the players bobbing in the Jubilee for a drink, the highly prized turnstile jobs that were, I believe, kept in the family and players actually living in ordinary local houses.

Yes, those were the days, when players played for the love of the game and for the pride of playing for their home town and not as now, for the highest bidder.