A huge Watford welcome to our opponents; AFC Bournemouth. I shall be missing this one as I shall be dancing the mambo at a fiesta. People say to me, ah Clive, it must be a marvellous life, always with women and in fiestas. Nobody appreciates the very havoc it plays with your football supporting. Anyway, on with the preview:- Phweep! Penalty! Ha ha. No only joking. Ha ha. But there have been a few though, haven't there? Did I read four out of four "won" in the last four home games? One a game. That's a fair head start against anybody, that, isn't it. 1-0 before you even get started. How careless of Bournemouth's opponents to have given away so many penalties. Here they come; the dreaded Muff. The over-staying guest at the Premiership party. The league's lingering fart. Have they still not got relegated? Well it must be this season, surely... The final non-Bournemouth supporting person with a general interest in football, keeled over and died, a cobweb-covered skeleton crumbling to dust from boredom from having to listen to gallant feats of South Coast derring do and gung-ho valiant pluckiness. We've heard enough of it. Time's up. Come in number nine. Enough. And all in front of an even gallant-er 12,000 crowd. Made up, in the greater part, of grossly overweight screeching guest house landladies, operators of shabby fairground rides, beach metal detecting oddballs, caravaners, tinkers, those men who screw the coconuts into the cups at the coconut shy so you stand no chance of winning and all, of course, liberally laced with lashings and lashings of slightly-batty pensioners who are vaguely aware they used to like football and so should go and watch it for something to do and who are only dimly aware of whether the game's started or not. Back to the third division with you! Away with you. Back where you came from. Go and bother Forest Green Rovers or someone like that. Let the proper teams get on with the football. We're fed up, we're bored with your huffing and puffing Anguses and Petes and Callums. Seen enough of 'em. It's all got a bit stale. Old hat. Boring. Go and be Valiant bloody Rovers somewhere else. Bournemouth as a Town I have had the unhappy experience of visiting Bournemouth on several occasions. And I have come away many, many pounds lighter. Pounds in weight, because it costs too much to eat there and pounds in money because it doesn't matter if you eat or not, these people will have it off you. Money hungry doesn't do it. They crave money. It's a zombie attraction for them. Despite my own hard-bitten wiliness in ensuring that every penny is a prisoner, the people of Bournemouth are shameless, barefaced Olympic champions of extracting coin from every unfortunate visitor who is foolish enough to innocently visit. The poor innocents. For a long time you'll repent your innocent foolishness. Going to Bournemouth full of illusions. Soon you'll get educated. Thinking it'll be a nice, happy seaside place. All buckets and spades and smiles. That's the biggest shame, is how innocent they go in. "I know, I'll budget £30 for the day" they think. Ha! Bournemouth has plans for you that are many, many times magnitude of your foolish £30. They spit on your £30. £30 barely buys you 2 hours parking on the seafront in Bournemouth. £30 is a plate of soggy chips in one of their dilapidated, melancholy hotels. £30 is whisked away from you so quickly it'll make your head spin. It's all efficiently organised. From eye-wateringly expensive donkey rides on the beach for shocked children and aghast parents, to shabby backstreet gentleman's clubs - your creeping, hand-wringing Muffer will be there. Taking the money. In his black and red striped shirt and fingerless gloves. I've been on the donkey rides too. What a rip! £20. And what a kicking aninal! And then, get this, they have the effrontery to write to the local paper and complain about the seagulls! Because they are thieves! Ha! If the seagulls had a wallet with a couple of banknotes in it, yer Muffers would be fighting one another whilst hastily tying on their fairground pockets-aprons as fast as they could and grinning cheesily, whilst thrusting ambitiously-priced tatty wares at you and clawing at the poor gull's feathers If you, dear reader, should ever decide, for reasons of foolish youthful bravado or accidentally stumbling on the place, then I would urge you to head this critical advice. I myself, as mentioned above, have been on several occasions. My grandmother and my brothers begged me not to, but you know that I can sometimes be obstinate. I went. And I received poor treatment. I suffered more than poor, victimised, tragic Zaha. Imagine that if you will. First you have to run the gauntlet of the CopperMuffs. The Babylonians of the Babylonians. Stretching every interpretation of the law to its ultimate Waiting to pounce. Tucked and hidden away in purpose-built hides. Don't be more than two adult males in the car. Don't be black when driving. Don't have a car that is more than five years old. Don't be Familia Kremlin in a Wartburg. Legal minimum-sized speed restriction signs are buried deep in the roadside foliage. Road markings are conveniently almost worn away. If you're over the limit - on speed, tyre treads or melanin - they're on your tail. You haven't even arrived yet and already your wallet is not as spongy as once it was. Already your buckets and spades mood is not what it was when you started out. But, fellow hornets and hornettas, I must confess that the reason for me visiting Bournemouth was not from innocent curiosity or a perverse desire to see just how much money it's possible to have loosened from your grasp in a single day. No. It was the smell of fish. I was young and foolish. It was a dalliance. She was loose, over-extravagant, a scolder. Typical of the fishwife type you find down there, I know now. Of the sort that made me say afterwards, Clive, single you should remain. Anyway, I was very, very drunk. I was young and easy meat for her. I was like a little bon-bon that had never been sucked. She was a widow and she almost took me to the graveyard too. I was almost ruined and with a very difficult situation. The clothes, only one change. No money. And I thought, don't be a fool Clive, find yourself a nice widow with some independence in the bank. And where better to look than in Bournemouth! Home of the senile. I went to the disco and found one. Big titty. Nice legs. And with buttocks that danced liked Pererya through a defence. I thought now it's your turn Clive. So I grabbed my WFC beenie hat and made sure it was very well put on, went over and said to her: "Madam. At your feet. I'm here only to contemplate your beauty, but if my presence makes you uncomfortable, then I shall leave immediately, even though the night is very dark". Well after a little more drinking, we went back to her guest house and she threw open the door and said "Clive, this house is yours!" Well. There I was in this stuffy guest house room. Exploring the mound of Venus covered with soft silks, whilst her her legs loosened up. And she was whispering in my ear: "Ay Clive I am your widow!" But then suddenly she screamed. I left the bed at a leap. Alarmed. Shocked. All the hairs on my body stood up on end and went crispy. What I had stuck it up was not the Muff. I fully expect Troy Deeney to repeat my exploits on Saturday. 3-0 to us.