It was the night before playoff final and no one from the manager to the tea lady was in the wide awake club, not even a mouse.
The gaffer's gaffer had put us up in one of the swankiest Berni Inns this side of Essex and nearly all of the lads had taken advantage of the buffet system (apart from Aaron Wildig who is on Ramadan at the moment). They'd set their "all you can eat" stall out in a particularly ill thought out way and needless to say we've taken full advantage of it. To be fair, the team have done it all season. Naughts has eaten eleven pickled eggs, breaking his record by two and Darcy's gone to town on the Vienetta.
So, Friday evening we were all very contented; and to be fair, exhausted. It's been a long hard season, not helped by the gaffer re-iterating that each of the last few games of the season were all "cup finals". For me, recording one cup final single is fun, but when you're recording your 12th in as many weeks it starts to get a bit wearing. Terry Burton is struggling to develop new melodies and Marshy is having difficulty in writing any new lyrics or finding anything that rhymes with Gyepes. I mean, despite his penalty heroics Marshy has been taking a lot of stick for attempting to rhyme "Ninian" with "Stadium". It can't be doing anything for the lad's confidence.
So I'm fast asleep, not interfering with play, when I'm awoken by a quite terrible wailing noise. And who is standing at the end of my bed other than my ex-Republic of Ireland team mate Phil Babb. I hadn't seen him since we were arrested for re-creating our favourite episode of Starsky and Hutch on the streets of Dublin. Phil had inadvertently rolled over the bonnet of an off-duty policewoman's car and I've followed him. Yes, looking back it was naïve, we've made a mistake at a vital moment and we were punished. For me, you can't afford to make such elementary errors. Afterwards you look back on what you've done, slightly ashamed, and you make a promise to yourself not to get caught next time. It's as simple as that.
"SPARKY! SPARKY!"
Phil is yelling now. Don't like it.
"SPARKY! THIS NIGHT YOU WILL BE VISITED BY THREE SPIRITS."
I'm thinking Bailies, Tequila and Cointreau, but...
"THE GHOST OF PLAYOFFS PAST, PRESENT, AND THE GHOST OF SEASONS YET TO COME."
At this point I'm starting to get concerned about Phil. I don't remember any Starsky and Hutch episodes with this plotline. And with that (just like with his footballing career) he is nowhere to be seen and I've climbed back into bed.
I'm soon fast asleep, though I am unsettled by visions of Wayne Routledge running at me in full flow. But, just as Wayne attempts to beat me for the fourth time (crowd shouting Olé each time I am left floundering) I am awoken by another noise. I open my eyes and am faced with one of the most horrid visages imaginable.
"What on earth happened to your face!!!?" I cry.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN??" he bellows
"Erm.." I reply
"I AM THE GHOST OF PLAY-OFF PAST, EX-MIDDLESBROUGH AND ENGLAND U21 ACE ANDREW CAMPBELL."
*Embarrassing silence.*
"I NEED TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING!" he says.
And with that I am sat in the Millennium Stadium alongside Andy Campbell at the 2003 Divison Two playoff final between QPR and Cardiff City. I'm not impressed. To be taken out of your comfortable bed on the night of a big game is one thing, but to be transported back through time and space to watch some lower league rubbish is another thing entirely.
"WATCH THIS?" Andy says, noting my dis-interest.
The ball is hoofed over the defence and an on-rushing Andy Campbell volleys the ball over the head of Chris Day in the QPR goal. The crowd go wild.
"Shinned it." I say. "At Championship level you'd never get away with that."
"HMMMM." Says Andy. "THIS ALL COULD BE YOURS, A WIN IN SATURDAY'S MATCH, A MATCH THAT'S THE BIGGEST IN THE CLUB'S HISTORY."
I've heard a lot of people say that this playoff final is the biggest in the club's history. For me, I've been in the game long enough to know that you're only ever as good as your last game so it's the next game that's the the biggest. We all know that it's difficult to keep both feet on the ground when you're knocking on the door of the top flight with one hand in the Premier League and one foot on the trophy. When all's said and done, it's as simple as that.
And with that, I'm back in my bed. Back to nightmares of the time when Gabor Gyepes rugby tackled me in OddBins.
Again I am awoken by quiet sobbing, and I look to the bottom of my bed - it's Yann Kermogant. Through his tears he asks:
"MARK! MARK! DO YOU WANT TO PLAY PREMIER LEAGUE FOOTBALL?"
I'm thinking, of course, any player wants to play at the highest level possible. But these sorts of offers should really go through my agent.
"THIS IS YOUR CHANCE, MARK!"
I sling him unceremoniously out of the door; doing my best not to make a cheap gag about French Fries. Being taken back in time by some sort of Elephant Man is one thing, being tapped up by the Ghost of Playoffs present is another. I'm back in bed, perchance to dream...
This is where the nightmares come, a recurring one, I'm being chased by zombies wearing Preston North End shirts. I'm desperately trying to get away but I can't move, it's like I'm running through sand, like being Mark Aizlewood against Bulgaria in 1994, and they're getting closer and closer...
"MARK!!"
I am awoken again. This is getting ridiculous.
"I AM THE GHOST OF SEASON'S YET TO COME."
I'm thinking, no, you're not, you're Richard Keys. But I'm too polite to say anything.
"COME WITH ME, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU."
I'm transported to Cardiff City Stadium, the lads are getting on the bus. But I don't recognize any of them, apart from Tony C and Encks.
"What's this? What's going on?"
"THIS IS WHAT COULD HAPPEN IF YOU DON'T WIN ON SATURDAY."
"What?"
"LOOK AT THE FRONT OF THE BUS MARK, LOOK AT THE FRONT OF THE BUS."
It says: "SCUNTHORPE".
"S****horpe! Again!? Noooooooo." I cry. I can't take this. The players hadn't even considered losing on Saturday. We've spent most of this week in training rehearsing elaborate goal celebrations where one player mimics sewing on a Premier League badge onto the sleeve of another. The thought of another trip to the likes of Leeds, Ipswich Town or Nottingham Forest is too much to bear. We want to be playing your Fulhams, your Wigans and your Boltons of this world.
"YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR WAYS! IF YOU DO NOT GET PROMOTED THIS SEASON YOU CAN FORGET HAVING STEVEN GERRARD'S COUSIN PLAYING FOR YOU, YOU'LL ONLY BE GOOD ENOUGH TO HAVE CHRIS PIKE'S NEPHEW. CHANGE YOUR WAYS TO REACH THE PREMIER LEAGUE (LIVE AND EXCLUSIVE ON SKY SPORTS!) CHANGE YOUR WAYS TO REACH THE PREMIER LEAGUE (LIVE AND EXCLUSIVE ON SKY SPORTS!)"
"But how!? Tell me how to change my ways!"
"AND IN HD........................."
His voice trails, he disappears, as I frantically scream: "But how?"
Once more, I am alone in my room. I walk to the window and open the curtains, it's morning now, I look outside, I see young Darcy walking past.
"Darcy!" I yell
"Yes sir?" He yells back.
I throw down a 50 quid note.
"Go to the Offy and get me the largest slab of Strongbow you can find!" I shout.
"Really, sir?!" Darcy exclaims.
"Yes. Really. And as many Monster Munch as you can carry!?"
"Can I keep the tokens!?" he replies.
"Of course!"
Darcy punches the air and runs to the Offy.
We will do our best on Saturday. We will win for the club, for the city and most of all for Riccy, who tragically retired earlier this season. As an aside, does anyone want a ticket for Saturday? Tony G has a few hundred he needs to shift, at good prices too. But that's Tony all over, typical Scouser.