BY RYAN JONES
Back in the early 90s, when you could still stand over on the paddock,
me, my Dad and our Wes had decided to take in an evening game.
Wes decided to treat himself to a pie,
and came skipping out onto the terrace with a handful of steaming meat based loveliness.
He was buzzing.
But no sooner had he carefully raised this pastry tour de force to his lips,
holding it precariously by the rim,
than the entire contents of said pie proceeded to evacuate itself
from its cosy enclave spectacularly onto the ever so grateful concrete,
leaving a great stain of boiling flesh like a dirty protest. It was hilarious.
I remember nothing of the game.