All roads led to the Carnivore, and getting there was an adventure in itself. The tried and tested mode employed was good old 'Ninja Mode'. The party-mobile was already there and was not about to come all the way to Westlands for us.

No one knew how were were to get there but we would wing it. I shall skip the details of how we boarded a matatu with one of the lads carrying a plastic cup of Popov. I shall also spare the details of how we threw bravery and courage to the winds and literally elbowed each other to get into a 15 as soon as four beefy men fiercely and aggressively relieved a hapless passerby of his possessions right before our eyes. What gave us speed was one of the fellows yelling "DUNGA KISU".

The matatu refused to enter Carnivore and so we alighted and started along that famous road. Immediately before us were a good number of ladies who had clearly thrown that notion of ladyship to the winds and were unglamorously making excellent time in an attempt to save 200 bob. Cotton, corduroy and leather are simply not meant to be abused in that manner...

The remarks with which the lads reacted to this picture can only be extracted from me if they are pried from my cold dead fingers. All that I can say was that being the only fellow who mixed my Fanta Orange with some more Fanta Orange, I was in a position to fully enjoy the show.

15 minutes to the hour we finally arrived at the Carnivore immediately behind a large mass of humanity that had been sprinting to save the 200 bob. For the uninitiated, this process is known as 'buzzer beating'. The atmosphere about the buzzer beaters reminded me of the atmosphere around a herd of oxen after a hard day's ploughing.

Since I had gone to work before rendezvousing with the lads, I was in custody of a large number of items that I was not anxious to enter that liquid fueled atmosphere with. A call to Baddy ensured my assorted gadgets and iron men were stored safely under a rear seat. I grow hot and cold at the thought of having to explain to my boss where exactly the thousand dollar hardware I was in possession of disappeared.

The first order of business after effecting an entry was to agree that the management was not in touch with the needs of the soccer fraternity and we immediately proceeded to rearrange the seating so thoughtfully arranged by the management in front of the projector. While this was in progress still some more of the lads arrived, fondly referred to as the Kale Consortium.

The game was just about to begin and the issue of fan support came up. Arsenal shirts were visible in plenty but for some reason very few Man U shirts were visible. It was discovered that the only Man U fan among the lads was one Diskette. The Jinx who to date insists he is a Fulham supporter volunteered to lend his support to Diskette. The rest of us laughed the two of them into insignificance and it was thus the action began.

As a staunch supporter of Fanta Orange, I observed as an assortment of liquids, majority of them clear, and the rest frothy made a progression from bar to seating area to stomach. It was not long before the potent brews made their presence felt. Being a custodian of a bewildering array of secrets I am not going to betray any, but suffice it to say that tongues were loosened and speech was free.

The vocal Man U support (at least where we were seated, outside the main area) seemed to consist of a solitary lass and her gentleman .I fully commend their commitment to their team in the face of the Arsenal fans who were not about to hide their affiliations. As true Generals should, we led, physically and metaphorically from the front. As soon as the shrill words "Go United" were heard a chorus of "Bollocks United", or any other derisive term followed suit. We can draw a merciful curtain over the spirited retort that lass got when she said "There's a hole in your boot Henri!"

We were silenced when Van Nistelrooy knocked in the first goal, myself in particular. Stunned silly. And it was here that the issue of lack of Manu U fans came about again. Suddenly jackets were opened to reveal true colours and the fan base quadrupled at once. However the following blizzard of goals were a testament to God's sense of humour. I recall me and my boy Kev dashing to the area before the projector and shaking our behinds at the Man U fans. And it was while we were hard at it that I noticed that Man U almost immediately scored as well!

A lot of knowledge made itself known that night. Some of it was:

Wiltord's real name is Wafula.
Man U's O'Shea is doing a 'soccer attachment' at Man U
Orbit changed its name to P.K. because Ferguson had hogged the lot
David Beckham was benched because his G-string had snapped
Wes Brown was a freelancer on the pitch. Whenever he got the ball both sides suddenly became scared
Vieira is in desperate need of a handkerchief
Nicky Butt was not named thus by accident

The resultant draw was a disappointment, but the game was excellent. The Rock that we enthusiastically threw ourselves into almost immediately afterwards was even more excellent. It was made still more entertaining by trying to dance and at the same time running away from some certain sales ladies who were peddling their wares* in simply LUDICROUS packaging. Somebody coloured affairs by laughing openly at a number of these itinerant traders who were seated at a bench.

It was a jolly fine night. Nameless, Wahu, Redsan and K-Rupt appeared at some point and the efforts which lads went to to secure Wahu's autograph and Nameless' high five are the stuff of another story altogether. Redsan and K-Rupt, through no fault of their own are held in a fine disdain and were left in peace.

The fact that at 8 in the morning, bright and early some of the lads were in class and I was swinging by the office en route to the same class is testament to the strength of the human sprit!