I'm Rangers too

We got Manchester United in the fourth round of the League Cup. I don't call it the Carling Cup and I never called it the Worthington Cup, the Coca-Cola Cup, the Rumbelows Cup, the Littlewoods Challenge Cup or the Milk Cup. It's the only thing we've ever won and to me it's the League Cup.

So we motored up to Manchester and checked in at a Travelodge in Salford. My dad had started to feel bad on the way up - tummy trouble brewing. He ate nothing when we went to some peculiar Italian place near the hotel and he was contemplating not coming to the match at all. He toughed it out though, and was back and forth to the gents throughout the dull fixture. The home side's second choice players ground out a 1-0 win and we made the mistake of trying to get a taxi near Old Trafford. We must have covered a good mile and a half on a wet and windy night before we eventually flagged one down. Dad managed not to soil himself or throw up in the cab.

I needed a beer and got one from the hotel's rudimentary bar. He headed upstairs, warning me not to disturb him in the night or in the morning under any circumstances:

"When I'm ready, I'll knock on your door or send you a text or something."
"OK."

So, when someone rapped on the door of his room in the small hours, he got up thinking I'd decided not to pay attention to his instructions. When the last bout of vomiting was finished, he'd finally retired to bed wearing a polo shirt in our club colours.

Standing before him was a naked man. Stark bollock naked. Not a stitch.

"Hello, mate. I've run out of the free tea bags. You couldn't spare one, could you?"

My dad tried to understand what he was seeing and hearing. The nude intruder pointed to a QPR tattoo on his bare chest and said, "It's alright, mate. I'm Rangers too."