Hijinks on the Aston Villa Team Bus, and a Boxing Day 'Moment'

Firstly, I hope everyone had a great day yesterday; I would like to think that I wasn't the only one who completely overdid it on the roast parsnips and pigs in blankets, and had to resort to changing into tracky bottoms halfway through the day.

Secondly, thanks to all those who commented on the Christmas Eve post, I was blown away by the response.

This weekend we'll be playing one of the toughest and most entertaining matches of the season. Exactly a year ago, we played at their place in an early six pointer for fourth place, and we blew a two goal lead in injury time. While it's a shame it won't be on Boxing Day this time around, I realise now that it probably isn't a match best viewed in the company of several relatives of varying ages.

My memories of the agonizing moment when Zat Knight scored that equaliser were roughly as follows.

When the ball hit the net, everything around me went into a blurred slow-motion. The voices of my family dropped about four octaves and became vague and distant, and like the sounds from the television, were increasingly drowned out by the thump of my quickening heartbeat. On the screen in front of me, claret and blue blotches were whirling around in celebration.

"Dave? Dave, what are you doing..."

I was slowly, and uncertainly, rising to my feet. Everything was shaking quite severely now, and sounds were becoming more and more muffled. Gradually surpassing the sound of my worryingly rapid heartbeat was a faint rumble - something was building up.

I looked down. My hands were trembling. Focusing as best I could, I could make out some concerned expressions around the room. Everyone was silent now, except for my Scouse uncle (don't worry, he married into the family), who was clenching his fists in triumph and guffawing obnoxiously at my misfortune.

I staggered forwards, keeling over from the sharp pain in my stomach. My heartbeat was becoming laboured now, as if trying desperately to force blood through a narrow gap in the copious deposits of turkey, sausage and bacon fat clogging my arteries. My body weak, I lamely threw a handful of Quality Street at my Liverpudlian tormenter and lurched towards the door. I made my way through the hall, propelling various obstacles across the carpet: Christmas presents, sleeping dogs, small children.

I soon found myself standing over my bed. My unfocused eyes rolled lethargically from side to side, seeking some defenseless inanimate object upon which I could unleash my fury. That rumbling was becoming a violent, cacophanous din, and I was shaking with rage. Spotting my pint glass, I seized it, aimed for the wall, and released.

I awoke a short while later. My limbs numb, I struggled into a sitting position on the bed and looked around. The room was fine, the pint glass intact; obviously I'd just been dreaming.

I looked at the clock on my bedside table - 8.15pm. Damn, that match did happen. Oh well, I thought, we were extremely lucky to go two goals ahead anyway. And if someone had told me at the start of the match that we'd leave Villa Park with a point, I'd probably -

Hang on, were those teardrops on my pillowcase?

Anyway, back in the real world, we face a difficult challenge against a full-strength Villa. With home advantage and Fabregas possibly back in the team, it may well be an opportunity to make a real statement of intent and give Chelsea something to worry about, but O'Neill's lot are in excellent form and will be making their way down to London tomorrow in high spirits.

I can see them now on their team bus, all excited and talking in English (it's cute how other clubs still do that), getting along ever so well. James Milner and Gabby Agbonlahor would be sat at the front just behind O'Neill, holding hands and singing bus songs; Ashley Young would probably be that compulsory hyper kid, bouncing up and down and kicking the back of the seat in front, upon which an enraged John Carew would be counting to ten and telling himself to ignore it. Brad Friedel would be psyching himself up, whooping and chanting "USA!", and sporadically grabbing his terrified team-mates and yelling things like "let's go kick some French ass!"

Richard Dunne and Curtis Davies would be playing catch with Stewart Downing's lunchbox, which his mum would have specially prepared for him. Downing would be pleading with them to give it back, tears streaming down his cheeks, until Emile Heskey selflessly intervened and retrieved it. Heskey would then ruffle the winger's hair and give him his own Penguin bar to cheer him up, and Downing would sniffle, wipe the snot away with the back of his hand, and gratefully tuck in.

As for today's matches, let's hope Chelsea and Spurs drop a couple of points - they've both got tricky away games and I reckon at least one of them will be leaving with less than three points.

Have a good Boxing Day Gooners, 'til tomorrow!