Blessed are those (at fitba' matches) who are hard of hearing . . .

However, the ears have been most troublesome at the fitba' match. Sure, with a following wind they helped me past the fleetest of full-backs but as a spectator they have caused nothing but pain. Certain grounds monitor my exact presence and subsequently sell the tickets behind with the inscription: "Restricted view".

Then there are the cold days (at Scottish fitba', are there any others?) when my lugs become so cold they take on the properties of an iceberg. I have been approached by the World Wordlife Fund to offer said ears as a location for respite care for stressed polar bears.

There is no use in looking for ear muffs. Frankly, there has never been a sheep big enough to produce that amount of wool. A Russian-style hat with flaps seemed to be the solution until I covered a European tie in Moscow and spent most of the post-match in Siberia building a canal after I was mistaken for a dissident. My pleas for freedom were not helped by misapprehension that dissident was something one used to clean one's false teeth. In Russia, it may be.

But the worst thing about big lugs is that one hears everything. After Red Adair has sorted the wax, obviously.

This exposes one to the worst excesses of the Scottish football fan. Increasingly, I believe that in certain seats there is a device that performs a full frontal lobotomy. Hospitality suites, too, seem to be fitted with a device that reduces spectators to jabbering idiots. Its scientific name, I believe, is alcohol.

The other week I sat in front of a bunch of supporters who had all been drinking on empty heads. Their comments were so inane they should have been writing match reports. They were baffling before half-time but wondrously incontinent, mercifully only in word, after the break. They trooped back to their seats with an aroma that suggested they had been individually used as a large cocktail stick.

Their team was being beaten and they made no pretence at hiding the anguish this caused them. This pain was understandable but their reactions were so over the top one could have been suspected they were following an officer who had just blown a whistle.

There was no-one who escaped their machine-gun approach to what was happening on the pitch. Unfortunately, this line of fire produced not only enough bile to keep the BNP going over the summer but industrial amounts of spittle. One fleck fell on a fellow sportswriter, its alcohol content instantly disqualifying him from driving for the rest of the day.

Therefore I greeted the ref's final whistle with all the relief shown by those who have walked into a lift with the sports editor and then watched him punch the button for the first floor.

The fans subsequently left to have additional orifices created so they could consume more bevy.

I had my ears wiped down by a souvenir towel and pondered that I had now heard just about everything at a fitba' match. Except the following.

Here are the 10 best statements I have never heard at a football match:

10Don't know about you Tam, but what I think this game really needs is another referee behind the goal.

9The catering here can be quite erratic but the bouillabaisse is to die for.

8Does my bum look big in this seat?

7I don't care who wins, just as long as we all enjoy ourselves.

6They say football is a metaphor for life, if so can I book into Dignitas please?

5The half-time DJ has wonderful repartee.

4Oh, look at that mascot. He is so funny, a veritable Groucho Marx of oversized cuddly toys.

3That's the thing about a junior centre-half, they are always in touch with their feminine side.

2I remember Kyle Lafferty jousting with Daniel Majstorovic. No wonder they call football the working man's ballet.

1I do not know why Kris Commons opts for hoops; they are so unforgiving.

Blessed are those (at fitba' matches) who are hard of hearing . . .