Well if only it had been the clap, which would have been far less embarrassing than the ‘injury’ I actually sustained over the weekend:

hand

Yep, I managed to bruise the palm of my right hand after clapping too hard while at Old Trafford on Sunday. The only consolation is it deposed my previous most embarrassing injury, where I sustained nerve damage to my fingers through carrying shopping bags (and me being the son of a coal miner n’ all). Evidently, my hands are nowhere near as hard as my heart is reputed to be.

Personally, I blame it all on Sir Bobby Robson. The minute’s applause for the great man started way too early and the emcee had to pretty much abandon his tribute and join in with everyone else. Before then there’d already been sustained applause while Nemanja Vidic and Federico Macheda collected their respective player of the year awards from last season. Then the mighty Reds made their way onto the pitch; Fergie made his showman’s entrance. The match hadn’t even kicked off and my hands were on fire. It started to feel like a banquet in 1930s Russia when Stalin was the guest of honour. Ovations would go on interminably as no one dared to be the first person to be seen to stop clapping in front of Uncle Joe.

Thankfully I was in the, er, hands of a sympathetic companion, who didn’t induce panic in me later by saying “I think it’s spreading! It might be gangrenous!” I, of course, felt completely reassured at this point, and didn’t leave the pub table to wash my hands in the gents in the vain hope it might have been northern grime on my soft southern hands causing the marks, rather than self-inflicted wounds caused by clapping too hard.

Not to say that La Row is completely lacking in her hospitable side, crashing in her front room while I got to kip in her bedroom. And what a bed! The instant I saw it I started having flashbacks to the beds I obviously did not see in late 1970s pornographic movies. For the record, I will say it was the biggest and longest... sleep I’ve ever had, which is more than could be said for Lady Guinness in the morning, woken up far too early for her liking by my repeated enquires of “Are you decent?”. I clearly heard her say “yes” the first time, but was tickled too much to hear her becoming more exasperated in her assertion that she was “decent” to stop continually asking the question.

As for Manchester, it obviously helped being guided round by an experienced local, who on leaving Old Trafford didn’t turn round to me and say “I’m not sure how to get back from here”. It was also pretty cool to sample Manchester nightlife, and not find out that the best place to be getting pissed in Didsbury late on a Saturday night is on a wall outside the Mtwenty (I always have had a taste for the ‘high' life). And it’s nice to get a decent pint in when on a session, and not have someone return with a round of the black stuff and say “actually, the Guinness here isn’t up to much”.

Row, I must return the favour next time you’re in my beloved north Lahnden. We can start at the bar of the motel in Finsbury Park where a few weeks ago two lesbian lovers made a suicide pact and poisoned themselves. The first round of Changs are most definitely on me.

But despite the dodgy beer, bars and bed, I had a bloody good laugh over the weekend, and had to remind myself at one point how only a fortnight ago I’d been totally in the doldrums. So ta very much for being a good friend, m'dear, even if I did have a chorus from a very dodgy late 1980s Texas song going through my head for much of the train journey back as a consequence. I’d give you a standing ovation if it wasn’t for the fact my hands would hurt too much.