If I were Stuart Hall, the man who uses his tongue better than a £500 hooker (I would guess), I might say that this performance was arrant, ill-conditioned, irredeemable, execrable or even unendurable.
The most amazing element to tonight's match was the crowd. Like many others, we ambled along after an early dinner, expecting to saunter up to the ticket office, buy some tickets for anywhere in the ground and in we would go.
I can count on one finger (probably the middle one) the number of enjoyable trips we have had to this godforsaken place. Four thousand holes in Blackburn Lancashire? More like four thousand points lost or given away.
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