Torquay, or not Torquay, that was the question.

The magic of the Cup was well and truly in evidence as the Sky Blue Express hit the South Coast at the weekend. The trip started poorly, being a man down before we left South London as Matt's sick bug had kept him up all night, and not in a way he's recently become used to.

Grandpa (the Xsara) was on time for the next rendezvous to collect SBJ, only to be foiled by a silent alarm clock, leading to a late change of collection point. Eventually we got to Brentford to collect Kev-lar, and the three of were en route by 8.15am.

The M4 was empty, and we stopped for breakfast at the services. "Mint Baileys, whatever will they think of next" was replaced as a topic of conversation by discussions about the various grades of cooked breakfasts offered. We had a choice of the Full English, the Traditional English, or just the English breakfast, served by a very polite lady who wished us all a Happy New Year more than once, in a service station managed by a throwback to small town America in the 1950s.

Anyway, I digress. We got to Torquay by 12.15, found the Hotel, checked in, found a pub after a nice walk along the front. Nicer than Blackpool and Southend by a long way, but very few pubs.

Found this one, which did the job, rather than the Spoons, which looked poor.



It had a 1930's gaming machine which paid out in cigarettes, in the days when smoking was macho and healthy.



We then took a taxi to the ground, and enjoyed the corporate bar with a view of the pitch.



Getting through the turnstiles we struggled with inept stewards and police, who seemed surprised to see so many fans at a sell out game. We then watched 87 minutes of nonsense before stealing the match with a cracking header from O Lord. Totally undeserved, but a fifth round tie against Sunderland or Blackburn awaits. 22 years of hurt, never stopped me dreaming.....

A night out in Torquay beckoned, which was entertaining as it turned out. Quote of the night from a local bloke in a tight white t-shirt who'd been dancing on his own in a cheap bar, having just walked up to yours truly (and looked up) to say 4 words, and 4 words only, before walking off - "You're not my type". Speechless was followed by amusement, to be knocked back is one thing, to be pre-emptively knocked back by him was a completely different kettle of fish.

The North awaits for our next taste of Cup magic.