The wasted seed of the Bulldog breed still lingers on

There, he paused, as I awaited interrogation/ threat/ smack in the face.

I tried not to blink. Stay cool, be calm, try to look hard.

Not easy when you resemble cuddly TV chef James Martin. Maybe I could distract him with a couple of recipes. Or diet tips. Yorkshire charm. Anything.

And then, like a Black Country Ray Winstone, he finally came out with it. "Are you . . . Villa?"

Phew. No, we weren't "Villa".

We were actually Preston, Forest and – just to top it off – two Wolves. Ha! If only this idiot knew, but best not to gloat just yet, particularly as his mates were gathering.

Six of them, all with pool cues in hand. I kid you not.

We were in the heart of Albion country, trying to watch the Sky match in a pub after a feisty WBA vs AVFC derby.

It was a rat trap. And, in the words of the Bob Geldof, we'd been CAUGHT.

He stared. I stared. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife – and he looked like the kind of bloke who'd have one.

"No mate," I eventually replied, "we're from Coseley."

Strangely, these words didn't have the 'not the droids you're looking for' effect I'd pinned my hopes on.

"Coseley?" he growled, gritting his teeth and closing to within butting range, "That's Wolves country!"

Damn. Think, Potter, think. What would Thora Hird do? Any second now, I'm going to feel the thwack of wood round the back of my head and the smack of skull on the front – all on the basis of being a fan of a team I don't even support.

We'd only gone for a 'corporate' and now we sat, suited and about to be booted by Burberry boneheads.

Time to put everything on black and spin the wheel.

"Go forth and multiply" I said, or two syllables to that effect. "It was bad enough when you called us Villa, but to come out with that . . ."

The Wolves pair looked aghast, faces split between 'ARE YOU INSANE??' and 'Whaddya mean about our team?'

The Nutter was taken aback. Confusion spread across his flabby features and he leaned away, angling his head like a dog that had just been shown a card trick.

My inner self silently said its prayers:?"Come on son, buy that bravado and let us the hell out of here. Amen."

He came forward again, making a movement with his right arm. I braced for impact.

Instead came words more welcome than Kelly Brook saying yes to a sleepover: "Yow'm alroight, mar moite."

He offered his hand not-so-much of friendship, but more 'you're off the right hook'.

I was reminded of this near death experience this week when reading about fans fighting . . . at a Shrewsbury versus Walsall game.

Yeah, I know, The Big One. It meant that much.

Pictures of the toytown hooligans revealed a homogenous mush of ugly mushes, badly dressed in expensive 'casual' gear and all trying to look as Green Street as possible. It's not even a good film.

And we're not just talking kids. Some were in their 40s and still stuck in a time warp of baseball caps and Stone Island sadness. It's like the nineties never happened.

What makes grown men decide to take up arms on behalf of their team? It's not as if the players care. Nor the vast majority of real fans. Their clubs hate them.

They're not going to get the Freedom of the Borough or a ticker tape parade for defending the town's honour.

The answer, of course, is that they're idiots; spineless, pathetic, inadequate bullies who can only find meaning to their sad existence by kicking off in front of bewildered kids and grannies on Saturday afternoons.

Always there, stinking the place out, lowering the tone, dragging good names through gutters, home and away.

Well, go home. Go away. I don't care where you go.

Just go.