On The Stig
"Dad", says the boy Scaryduck Junior as another wave of inneffectual Manchester United attackers bear down on Manuel Almunia's goal.
"Not now son," I say. The lad's never quite grasped this whole football-watching thing, and his sense of timing also needs some work.
"But..." he continues, as the Arsenal's northern foes get a goal back in the 90th minute, sparking another ten of what is scientifically known as 'squeaky bum time'. "But... I know who The Stig is"
"The Stig. From Top Gear."
I humour him, for the memory of the recent T*tt*nh*m collapse - where, such are the standards we set ourselves, a spectacular 4-4 draw can only be seen as a crushing defeat - is still fresh in my mind, and my boot is poised to go through yet another TV screen: "Oh, go on then. Who is it?"
I've spent the previous ninety minutes in a blissful Arsenal bubble. Nerves and a lack of beer money led me to eschew the comforts of The Old Castle for my favourite armchair, SKY Sports and all the cheesy Doritos in the world.
And how I have been rewarded. Banished are the recent nightmares of the Spuds and Stoke City. Instead, a superb team performance that sees off The Forces of Darkness.
And, at the end of all this, the true identity of The Stig.
Joe Pasquale. Everybody's favourite helium-voiced, middle-of-the-road comedian.
"So, what you're telling me lad, is that Joe Pasquale - a man not entirely known for his driving skills - is, in fact, the greatest racing driver in the world?"
"Yes. Yes I am. Think about it, Dad. You never hear him speak, do you? If I were Pasquale, I'd keep my mouth shut too if I had a top gig like that."
You've got to admit, the boy's got a point. You never see them in the same room, do you?
And now it's on the internet, it is OFFICIAL and rules out other, well-known candidates:
* Dawn French
* Baroness Thatcher
* Ken Lee
* Basil Brush
Go on, tell me: Who's NOT The Stig?