The things we do for love. I pondered this yesterday afternoon from my position midway up the Kenilworth End Stand as the swathes of red and white attacks continued to besiege the home team’s goal in the freezing cold.
Why am I here? I could be sat at home, beside the redoubtable wood burner, robust red wine in hand helping myself to the half-truckle of Stilton left over from the Easter feast. Or Grandma’s Banoffee Pie. I could be sat, with feet up, watching the greatest film ever made for the thirty third time.

Der der der der der, der der der der, der der der der der, der der der der, der der der der der der der, der der der der der. Dum dum. Dum dum. Derrrrrrrrrrrr.

The score sends goosebumps soaring every time I hear it. It’s just a beautiful, beautiful piece of cinema. Escape To Victory, from the first time I saw it, has completely enchanted me.

I thought I was a Victoire-tragic then, via Twitter, I received this delightful piece of correspondence.

I refer you to the opening sentence on this post. Surely, that has to sum up the future Mrs Scott.
Good on her. And good on Craig for realising the dream. John Colby would be proud.

Postscript. Is there anyone reading this who hasn’t seen Escape To Victory? Please, do yourself a favour, go and watch it.

You’ll thank me. It’s likely to be the best hour and forty odd minutes of your life. Promise.