Come On You Red Ones!

This weekend was younger brother's birthday, so a clutch of southerners made the journey to the icy wastes of Sheffield, wrapped in their winter furs, and smeared in goose fat.
The weekend was intended to be a cultural exchange - a tour of my brother's childhood. Absolutely brilliant idea. So we went to watch Sheffield United play Wolverhampton Wanderers at Bramall Lane. A match with great family (as well as sporting) significance: our grandfather had been a devout Wolves supporter. Indeed, in a letter he wrote to me during the 6 months our lives on earth overlapped, he made it very clear that, aside from getting a doctorate at Cambridge, I was also to become captain of Wolves. He would be sorely disappointed if he could see the sportophobic sap I've grown up into.
Michael, a Blades fan since he could kick a ball, was cheering and shouting in the deep neanderthal hoot that all football supporters adopt, no matter how middle class they are. He knew all the chants and looked in his element; his face glowing with joy as his team went 1-0 up after about 20 minutes.
The rest of us also thoroughly enjoyed the match, although we let the side down rather by having to read the words to the chants off a laminated sheet provided by one of Michael's thoughtful and highly organised friends.
After the 12 of us had invaded Mum's living room in a tornado of tea and biscuits, we hit West Street; in my day, lined with spit 'n' sawdust pubs and kebab shops; now lined with Yates's Wine Lodges and kebab shops.
Most of us had burger, chips and coke for £2.80. Those with more sophisticated palates dined on dim sum in a posh chinese restaurant while the burger gang chugged chinese beer at the bar. After a brief and futile attempt to find the club that Michael's schoolmates had gone on ahead to, we suffered a long and futile attempt to hail 3 taxis. Eventually we flagged down a fleet of them and made our way back to the cottage we'd hired in the wilds of Derbyshire, whereupon we quaffed champagne like it was coming out of the taps and played the celebrities game, Golds versus the world. We wiped the floor with their sorry asses, despite some overcompetitive cheating on their part.
Finally, a game of laughing tummies. This is a game that can only be played when alcohol has blunted everyone's inhibitions. Everyone lies on the floor with their head resting on someone else's tummy, in what's supposed to be neatly tesselating T shapes, but generally ends up in an orgiastic sprawl. The overwhelming feeling of foolishness will cause someone to laugh. Their jiggling diaphragm will wobble the head of whoever's using them as a pillow, causing a domino effect of contagious laughter.
Best done when a bit stoned to be honest, but good fun under any circumstances. Probably, merchant banks should make their staff begin every day with a round of laughing tummies.
An inspired birthday celebration - brilliant fun. Five Stars.