A difficult one to call, this. Wigan are an unpredictable bunch. Since arriving at the DW in June- with the gait of a man still owning two good hips- Roberto Martinez has laboured somewhat in coaxing momentum into a side who, twelve months ago, were brimming with the stuff.

Ahoy there.

A word of caution. If you ever decide to visit Cairo in the near future, particularly if it involves a back-crippling, desert traversing, eight hour coach trip from the south coast in the small hours of the morning, perhaps don't choose the day when Egypt are hosting Algeria in a World Cup qualifying decider and the City is on relative lockdown; traffic has stalled, shops are abandoned and from every stationary, horn-honking mini-bus there's a national flag being hoisted from the sun-roof.

Well, not much storm, really, just plenty of lull.

Unless I can wrangle this old electric word box past customs tomorrow night, WFRF? will be offline for a week. Somehow, despite debt collectors camping on my front lawn rattling their tin cups at me, I'm flying out to North Africa on Wednesday for seven days on the coast.

Welcome to the jungle.

All eyes on Sharon Bent this weekend. After cutting the bouncy shinned striker loose in the Summer- not in altogether harmonious circumstances- Benty will no doubt be looking to prove a point. Whether it be cannoning one of his knee, face, balloon or all of the above, the Spurs defence will need to keep close tabs on a man positively seething with indignant wrath.

I know, I know. It's not even in December yet. Although, you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise with the amount of tinsel, fairy lights and ‘great gift ideas' polluting my telly box in the last few days; already I'm getting that urge to take my best scissors to the mains and put shot to the whole damn thing.

A lot of understandably miffed punters doing the rounds this weekend; message boards, phone-ins and blogospheres crammed to the skylights with Spurs fans giving their two cents on what was ultimately a dismal fist at beating our insufferable neighbours. Some, while still dousing their grazes in TCP, willing enough to put the result into context and move forward; others more likely to dance the fandango of doom, goat's blood smeared across their forehead, wailing until Harry Redknapp's hide is sent packing back to Sandbanks.

I'm required to submit at least thirty characters per post so this sentence should just about cover it.

'I "I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street.

What is it with this Carling Cup lark and its ability to bring out the worst out in people? First, in round three, the two biggest pikey brigades go ‘full retard' at Upton Park like it's the last days of Rome, then, last night, the Oakwell pie man is trapped aboard his wagon while the Northern rabble outside throw their soiled underwear at each other, before finally hopping aboard and plundering the lot.

Watching a Spurs fan piss in the sink of the South Stand toilets at White Hart Lane yesterday, I couldn't help but make the frank analogy between his actual of porcelain defiling and our failure to claim maximum points. Against a team of a vagabonds and thugs, the game trickled down the plug hole and out of sight.

Evening, campers.

Perhaps noteworthy, tomorrow will see the loudest two sets of fans come head to head for the first time this season. According to those poindexters with the clipboards and ear horns, Stoke and Tottenham emit the highest level of decibels from their respective strongholds; with Stoke ahead by a whisper.

The robot. Few can deny it's a classic move. Night clubs all around the world have bear witness to the sight of drunk middle-aged businessmen crooning their way across the dance floor like C3PO's handicapped brother; mechanically drinking cups of tea, waving, pulling rope or, if they're feeling particularly maverick, the robo-handshake.

To be a Portsmouth fan. Doesn't look terribly fun at the moment, does it? Despite Aruna Dindane's best attempts to shoo them away with his skyward finishing, the dark clouds are most certainly roaming down at Fratton Park; the whiff of saline sea air has been replaced by one of fear and loathing.

Good old Peter Crouch. His scoring record for England now reads: played 35, started 17, scored 18; comfortably inside the hallowed ‘goal every other game' ratio international strikers look to operate in. More prolific than Michael Owen's 40 in 89 haul and offering a greater return, even, than Shrek Rooney (25 in 55); Capello's favourite man-child.

Right, who's got change for the meter? It's bloody freezing in here. No? Well, I suppose I'll have to throw another book on the fireplace, then. I say fireplace, what I really mean is the open oil drum which blazes in the centre of my living room; eating everything from Hornby (he's a Gooner- so that's okay) to surplus table legs.