This is one of the few grounds where I have openly spoken to opposition fans.
When the peanut thief and I arrived at the Wetherspoons in Wind (rhymes with bind, find, hind, kind, mind and rind) Street, there were about 10 'youths' around a table in the centre of the bar; as we entered all heads turned towards us. The younger of the two of us must have thought that he had seen a ticket collector because he immediately made a run for the toilet - whether this was because he had just shit himself or that he thought it was a place-of-safety was not clear, but personally if things had turned nasty I don't believe that it was the smartest move to make.
In for a penny - in for a pound, I thought the wisest thing to do was to make contact and nodded in friendly fashion. "Where's your boys to?", came the enquiry.
"Boys?", I ventured.
"You know - the Baby Squad".
I patiently explained that the Baby Squad are no longer babies and it would probably be better if they came up to Leicester and made an appointment if they wanted to meet up with them.
This seemed to relax them and they started to talk the kind of English that only Welsh people understand. I wondered if it was an appropriate moment to offer the "Learn English or Speak Welsh" Smithy gem but thought that in all probability they were not Gavin and Stacey fans -the series featuring Barry Island, rather than their own beloved Gower.
Anyway, I found a seat next to a power-socket - I really must remember to buy a new battery for my lappy - and awaited Fludee's return. I did wonder whether I should ring him to tell him the coast was clear but he soon popped his head round the door (three times for added safety) and rejoined me.
Very nice of him to buy me a cider - but cider which looked and tasted like Ribena was something I wasn't expecting. Every time I meet the lad, something happens like this that makes me even more worried about him.