THE sleepless nights have begun, the days are interminably long.

Curiously I don’t recall being this jumpy in ‘09, ‘10 or ‘12 before a Challenge Cup final.

In previous years the Away Day Crew has always had matching T-shirts.

What if we opt out this time?

Our regular parking spot at The Green Man has gone, and we’re dumping the SUV on someone’s front porch in Wembley instead.

There’s been occasionally fraught debates on whether to fancy dress or not – involving primrose and blue trunks and unflattering shades of Lycra.

How did we perform in the league the week before Wembley in previous years. Where’s the stats book? Argh!

This and other nonsense, seeking omens in the tiniest of eventualities is dogging preparations for Saturday. If we reach Old Trafford again I might need the back end of September off.

Maybe the weight of expectation is greater this time around but I’ll not be right until teatime. Good luck boys.

  •  One reader asked why I’d ignored the Olympics in print over the past fortnight.

And truth be told, I’ve thrilled at the exploits of our cyclists, divers and other waterborne stars.

Heck I even got into the ra-ra sevens for a while.

Until we were bullied by a tiny South Sea island at any rate.

I’ve even managed a wry smile at the National Lottery promos reminding Joe and Jane public how ‘play makes it possible’ for our funded athletes.

(Not your taxes that support various sports bodies already.

Or the licence fee you fork out to send the BBC’s small army to Rio.) For the traditional tail-end of the games though, I’ll pass thanks.

The retrospective shattering of all our illusions, months or years later, courtesy of the testing labs, has ruined most track accomplishments for your correspondent.

Remember the ‘dirtiest race of all time’, the 100-metres final of Seoul ‘88, where six out of the eight runners were eventually snared by the testers? I’ll save the celebrations for 2020.

Or whenever medical science catches up with the various shadowy athletics regimes around the world.

  •  Just to prove that binge drinking as a young adult can have dire consequences in later life, the 20th anniversary of V96 had totally passed Podium by.

As a trainee reporter it was manna from heaven. Forget court, council and inquests, Britpop’s finest were coming to town and you could write about Jarvis, Supergrass and Gary Numan instead of shoplifters, house extensions and hangings.

People tend to forget the festival was not universally popular, especially with Latchford folk, amid public meetings to quell the nerves of concerned citizens.

I’m not sure what the mood was during the event but I’m fairly sure the old Riley’s shop on Wash Lane never had it so good.

Random memories of the day – my young neighbour partying so hard he never made it to the gate; an Away Day Crew veteran jacking his King’s Club job in to even be there; nearly getting into a fight during Supergrass’ set then strangely bonding with the lad who wanted to take my head off; nicking some poor tyke’s butties during Elastica in the tent; walking back home halfway through Pulp’s bit as I was a little worried about the fate of my young neighbour.

It was Warrington’s Woodstock and would only be neared by the bizarre stop-off by Radiohead four years later, which I missed as I’d sent myself to Coventry (literally). Then the Stone Roses at the Parr Hall for the lucky few, also narrowly missed. For V96 though, happy days.