"We're West Brom til we die, we're West Brom til we die. We're blue and white, the Wolves are shite, we're West Brom til we die". This is the song my 5 year old nephew decided to entertain us with at Saturday evening's family bonfire extravaganza. His 3 year old sister had given us '1,2,3,4,5 once I caught a fish alive', which was perfectly acceptable, but I was somewhat stunned by the West Brom chant.
My nephew has a season ticket which he shares with my mother. One of them accompanies my brother to all WBA home matches throughout the season.
This is a whole new world to me, and one which I've never understood. I've been to matches and I've even run down the tunnel at Old Trafford - thanks to a NatWest hospitality event (although in my mind I was a member of ABBA coming on stage for an encore, not a premier league footballer running on to the pitch for a kickaround).
Anyway, the whole football thing kind of missed me. I was the one last to be picked at school. Every time. The time I spent waiting to be picked I spent devising clever put-downs for those people who never picked me. Thinking of names to call them and daydreaming about the matching quilt and curtains I wanted in my bedroom.
If forced to play, I'd always position myself nearest to the player with the best legs. Well, it's nice to have something to look at when you've got nothing to do isn't it?
Anyway, as the West Brom chant ended, my cousin (a female 53 year-old senior manager in the NHS and avid Wolves supporter) stood up and gave an equally tasteless Wolverhampton Wanderers chant which made the five year old cry. It took him an hour to calm down, such were his tears.
We watched fireworks, we drank soup and we got through a few bottles of wine. As I left the house towards midnight, my nephew, who had been sleeping on the sofa, woke up to say goodbye.
"the Wolves are shite, aren't they?" he said, before dropping back to sleep.