There's a problem with drinking, which is that you can't start, stop, then start again. This simple biological fact can dictate the course of events for entire evenings of your life. For instance, it explains why I found myself in the Reckless Engineeer at ten o'clock on a Saturday night.

It all started wholesomely enough. It was such a lovely day, and so remarkably warm for February, I decided to walk to the football. This takes about an hour, and once you get past Barton Hill it's really quite pleasant.

6 minutes into his debut home game, new signing Dele Adebola scored his first goal for us. There were huge cheers, followed by the noise of fifteen thousand people all turning to their neighbours and saying that's what we've been missing. We won 2-1 in the end, after a solid, convincing performance.

After the game, we went to the pub, and had a couple of pints. Which was very nice, but did after all constitute starting, so I went to the Hen and Chickens for a quick pint before meeting Sean later. I had to, because otherwise the early drinking and the late drinking would have been out of phase with each other. Do you see?

On the way out, a man saw my Bristol City hat and asked how the game had gone. Normal people exchange a few polite words and walk away, but being me I immediately launched into a detailed analysis of the game, culminating in a eulogy along the lines of and we're doing so well, I'm so happy, every step I take in the rest of my life is like walking on inflated Reeboks, etc etc. He gave me the look that says you're middle class, aren't you? But then he gave me the second look, which says but you're a City fan, so I forgive you.

After that I went to the Coronation with Sean, which was fine except I was several pints further down the road than he was, poor sod, and headed off home to watch Match of the Day. Which is too far without a drinks break, unless you want to be out of phase again.

Halfway from the Coronation to my house is the Reckless Engineer, which might for instance have been Richard Trevithick carrying an axe incorrectly, but is in fact a pub. It's in exactly the right place for staying in phase.

There was a band. I got a pint, and sat down at the empty table just to their right. They were a covers band, it turned out. Bad Company, REM, Robbie Williams, Coldplay. You know the kind of thing.

People were dancing, but not in a flattering way. Speaking as someone with two left feet, who's been known to leave a family function because people wouldn't stop trying to make him dance, I may not be that well placed to judge, but it seems to me that at some point you have to stop dancing about the music, and dance to it instead. I felt a wave of sympathy with the band, particularly the singer, who was really quite good.

So when they took a break, it seemed natural to ask him for a request. And when he asked me what I wanted, it seemed just as natural to say play us one of your own songs. I do concede, though, that it was an error to respond to his startled look with Oh - aren't you allowed?

At one stroke, the hollowness of his professional life was laid bare. He didn't have any of his own songs, and he wouldn't be allowed to perform them if he did. I could have died.

And yet, it was fine. Because he saw my hat. And suddenly, the whole thing was forgotten, and we were talking about players and strategies. He told me he wasn't going at the moment, because he used to go with his Dad but couldn't face it since he died two months ago. He said he hoped he'd be going back soon, and we talked about the pleasure his Dad had got from it when he was alive.

Which brings me to my theme, which is the way that being a Bristol City fan got me out of trouble all night. You can be crass, you can be drunken, you can be excessive, yet people will forgive you. Truly they are my redemption team.

And we're second. Still, after two thirds of the season. See the Championship League table if you don't believe me. See it before Saturday, though. Things might change on Saturday.