I blame my dad…well initially I blame him. I also blame the man who should have become my husband and my best friend Jack. All three of them, the father, the turd and the holy spoke. It’s why I am here this evening, here freezing my backside off watching my team playing against Oxford United in the F.A Cup. My company as you can see, is a fairly warm pie, a Thermos flask and a rucksack containing a fairly well read and crossword attempted newspaper, a new note pad, envelope, pen and a diminishing book of stamps in which at some point I will write to the man who should have been my husband two and half years ago that I completed the challenge laid down before me. I shall write, much more kindly it has to be said, to my dad who decided to stay at home and watch some old tosh on the television rather than see me complete the task….that’s not fair as he went to quite a few games with me but a few weeks back he slipped over in the ice outside Wigan station and broke his leg, and I shall write with glee and pleasure to friend Jack and tell him he is not the only stupid arse to complete the ninety-two.