I HATE going to Gillingham. It takes three days to get there, it's always freezing and we never win.

And from a purely selfish point of view, I can't say I'd be devastated were they to be demoted for their alleged financial irregularities.

My misgivings about making this trip were confirmed when, as our coach pulled up at some traffic lights in town, a local hoved into view.

Glazed of eye and unsteady of foot, our friend had clearly taken a cold drink or two.

Peering through his alcoholic haze, it registered that we were Burnley fans. He then proceeded to give us what your correspondent can only assume to be a traditional Kent greeting.

Either that or he was using dubious hand signals which are best left undescribed in an upstanding publication such as this.

Under police escort we arrived at the coach park, which was unhelpfully situated about as close to Priestfield as, say Devon.

When one of our number complained to the constabulary about the long hike to the ground, she was scowlingly advised to "go find a taxi." Thank you very much officer. Having yomped through half of Kent to find the ground, Burnley fans were just recovering from the shock of having paid £13 to stand on a crumbling, roofless terrace, when the afternoon took a surreal turn.

Gillingham's mascot, a seven foot high cloth horse, pitched up before the travelling supporters and went through what can only be described as a series of lewd gyrations to the accompaniment of Robbie Williams.

The Gills sense of humour was again evident when it became apparent that they fully expected 1,900 Burnley fans to manage with less than half a dozen toilets. This encouraged a lusty chorus of "You've only got five urinals" to the visible bemusement of our hosts.

As a bitty, gritty, match unfolded with both defences well on top, Clarets fans turned their attention to the Gills alleged fiscal difficulties. "You're going down cos you're dodgy" being the pick of the bunch.

On the pitch, Nikos Michopoulos stopped the rot and earned the Clarets a point with a fine save in the last minute.

All that remained was to make our way home. But that was easier said than done.

What, with the labyrinthine complexities of Gillingham's side streets and alleyways to negotiate en route back to the coach park. In the dark. In the freezing cold. Like I said, I hate going to Gillingham.