The set up's pretty consistent. The same auld, tired, lame format you'd expect at Ochilview. Their team plays forty five minutes and then, if anyone's managed tae fight their way through the tedium and are still awake at the interval, they get two chocolate hobnobs, a polystyrene cup of sweet, stewed tea, and a chance to fulfil their lifelong ambition to play on the (plastic) field of dreams.

Or to put it another way, two fat fuckers wander out fae the main stand and spend their fifteen minutes of fame in front of the away support playin' shooty-in fae the penalty spot. By the looks of the "builders' arses" hingin' oot their troosers, it seemed like the two combatants were the same ones that had been at it when we last visited in December. However, the arsehole wi' the microphone announced that this pair of hawfwits had actually made it all the way tae the semi final.... (the half time entertainment must have been fuckin' spectacular this season....)

It was as you'd expect; utter shite. Neither one of the protagonists bothered even taking their hands oot their pockets until the ninth penalty kick. And then, from nowhere, Saint Apollinaire, the patron saint of all things ridiculous, descended and the madness began. Big Dave of the Sutton Park Barmy Brigade exposed his hands to the fresh air and actually tried tae save the shot, blasted forcefully at him by Brian, the best that the Meredith Drive Mad Boys could muster. (Are ye impressed wi' ma knowledge of the local gang kultur?)

Oh, so near and yet so far - the ball squirmed under him, lardy landed with a bump and a sharp crack(!!) rang out around the ground as his collar bone snapped and/or he dislocated his shoulder. Mmmmmm, sore. Appalling stuff. Ah nearly choked on ma pie - naw, ah wasnae sickened by the vision of human suffering laid out in front of me; ah was laughin' that hard, ah could hardly keep all the meaty goodness in ma puss....

If that kind of slapstick entertainment isnae worth nine quid, ah don't know what is. But it was to get even better. While Microphone Martin was calling for help - "Honest, this looks like a bad one; could someone send out the physio....?" - and the wee fat guys with the fold-up stretcher were cranking their slick, life saving machine into action, Officious Archie, Steward Second Class (probationary), decided that today was to be the day that his mammy would finally sew that permanent stripe onto his yellow nylon jacket.

His ambition clawing ferally away at any reason, he strode purposefully towards the Fife fans behind the goals, ignored the wee guy with his legs over the wall (if anyone was breaking the rules, surely it was he....), shoved his finger (armed????) intae the face of the first Fifer he could find and explained that if we didn't stop rippin' the pish out of his fallen comrade there'd be bother. Needlesstosay, the laughter only intensified, leaving Archie no option but to send for back-up. Short, ugly and grotesquely overweight, that was to manisfest itself in the form of Sturdy Sadie with the bad breath and even worse attitude!

Honest tae fuck, you just couldn't make this sort of stuff up! The polis eventually turfed oot two of us (surely, just tae somehow vindicate the nonsensical behavious of the stewards) and Big Dave, who'd by now bravely gotten back to his feet, limped pathetically off the park (ah thought he'd hurt his shoulder). He hobbled just close enough to me, Mark, Heath and Chris to allow us to enquire about his welfare - "wur ye greetin' like a bairn, ya big pussy?" - but failed tae see the funny side and subsequently proved that whatever he'd hurt, it wasnae his fuckin' mooth; shocking language, young man!!!!

Chuckling tae masel, I wandered happily back behind the goals for the second half. I'd maybe no' have been quite so cheerful, mind, if I'd realised then that we'd already seen the totality of the entertainment for the day. The second forty five minutes dragged on for the best part of an hour (seemed longer) without much to write home about at all. The boys on the park were their usual hard working selves but had tae be satisfied with simply going through the motions against opposition that, despite their bluster, had already been beaten before their half time cuppas.

We'd gone in a goal to the good, courtesy of a Ryan Blackadder strike in the forty second minute. It was ultimately to prove to be the difference between the two sides but, to be honest, we should have put this one to bed long before that. As early as the fifth minute, Templeman the Wonderhorse had a great chance to open the scoring, picking up a sublime pass from the Boaby, but was foiled by a lacklustre finish and a straightforward save from the Stenny keeper.

If he'd contrived his own failure with that effort, the big man could feel somewhat more disappointed later in the half when his great effort to chip the keeper slid agonisingly over the bar. A combination of ill fate and, to be fair, a sterling display by Ally Broon between the Warriers' sticks meant that, despite our domination, the score remained level. That gave the home side renewed confidence and soon they were creating the ocassional half chance of their own.

If the Stenny keeper had been playing well, however, our very own Craig Wight put in yet another inspirational shift. Such has been the control and dominance that we've exerted this season, the keepers' lots have been easier than they should normally expect. However, each of the guys who've stepped up to the mark this term has showed outstanding quality and ability. Since the turn of the year it's been Craig who's stolen the shirt - today's performance illustrated again that he's a fuckin' crackin' keeper.

Stenny's best chance in the first half came just five minutes before the break when Brian McLaughlin caught a volley just outside the Fife box. It was a screamer of an effort that on another day would have burst the net but Wight was more than up for it and pulled off an outstanding save, making it look simple in the process. Wonderful!!

And it proved to be a perfect launch pad for the boys to head back up the park and knock the Warriors on their arse. The ball was fired into the box and met by the Wonderhorse; his flick was perfectly weighted for Blackadder to run onto and blast home from close range. It had taken a time to arrive but was welcome all the same and the fact that Ryan had bagged it made it all the sweeter. In recent weeks he's really looked comfortable in the team and, for me at least, his performances have improved by just doing the simple stuff well.

Sadly, the cheat blew just three minutes later and, apart from the half time shenanigans (value for money, granted, but not really what we'd paid for), that was, to all intents and purposes, to be the end of proceedings for the afternoon. I couldn't help thinking back to the young (and eternally patient) woman we'd met on the train earlier in the afternoon. We'd tried to talk Jacky (fae Brunstane) into joining us for the game (hysterical, I'll admit, but no' as fuckin' daft as me and Chris thinkin' we had half a chance with her.... daft auld tossers - you can aye rely on us) instead of continuing to meet her pal in Perth.

I'm now more than happy to acknowledge her good judgement and confirm that, despite Perth being a hell of a place, she most certainly had a better time there than she would have had wi' us. And if nothing else, she didn't have to suffer me an' Chris feebly attempting to chat her up in the, otherwise, wonderful surroundings of the lounge at the Burnhead Bowling Club. Even the Fare Dodger paid too much to have to suffer that spectacle!

In any case, by tea time, both me and 'ma eldest' had already had enough excitement for one day. We made our way home without another drop of beer touching our lips, content that wur team had secured another three points and relieved that we didnae have tae stay up late and entertain Jacky. That would have been the finish for me..... ah'd have been no more than a jibbering wreck, 'blubbin' like a pussy', right enough!

....