When I was a nipper, “the Fan Club” was synonymous with good times in Leicester. The Fan Club would let underage drinkers dance to mad music from Manchester amidst a gaggle of goths. Doormen, and I use the term loosely, were less interested in the age of the fun loving criminals within, and more interested in occasionally taking the club owner hostage and robbing him blind, or leaving him tied up in a room behind the bar while they made an exit with the door money.
But now, the fan club for me means my personal fan base. These are the people who send me presents, send me emails and buy me drinks in bars. And occasionally point out that I shouldn’t be drinking lager during lent. Once more, last night I may have lapsed with the lager abstinence. Friday evening rules meant that after beer o’clock, eating was cheating, so I can’t really recall too many of the details. But finding a packet of peanuts in my top pocket, and 500,000 turkish lira in my back pocket when I wake up on the sofa is always a bad sign…