Hamish Champ: Blue is very most definitely the colour

Nothing beats being at a football match 'in the flesh' when something truly great happens. I was at Stamford Bridge two years ago when Chelsea beat Manchester United 3-0 to win the Premiership for the second year running. I wouldn't have swapped that experience for, well, for very much at all.

Two years on and I couldn't get to the same fixture held at the weekend. This game was laced with perhaps even more cliff-hanging potential than that last breathless affair, but since I hadn't a ticket I had to content myself with watching the game on TV.

But where to watch it? I could've sat at home on my own, a few bottles of ice-cold beer lined up on the coffee table, nervously biting my fingernails down to their stumps, pacing the living room floor as the game ebbed and flowed.

That prospect was about as appealing as a visit to a men's 'health clinic', so I press-ganged a mate of mine - a Charlton fan from birth but agreeable to supporting the Blues on this occasion - to join me in watching the game in a pub.

Having finally found one which was showing the game - small screen TV, sound off, pub music sound system blaring - we settled by the bar.

Within seconds of the kick-off one can tell where the pub crowd's support lies. A group of Chelsea fans wince as Joe Cole hits the woodwork; a clutch of Cockney Reds near the door clutch their heads when Nani falls over yet again, while neutrals scattered in between the two tut at gamesmanship and unsporting behaviour from both teams.

The stakes are so high and the lack of segregation so complete there's a sense that it could kick off at any moment. But it doesn't. Perhaps that's because this is Blackheath Village (darling) and things like that just don't happen here. At least not on a sunny Saturday afternoon in the local O'Neills bar.

After a nail-biting 95 minutes during which time I'd leapt about like a middle-aged leapy thing the game ends. Victory is ours!

Almost immediately the pub almost empties, the football punters heading across the road to another pub, the Crown, which has no Sky TV but a sizeable outdoor area. Those left watch a Heineken cup semi-final complete with commentary, the sound system that had been playing at ear-splitting levels throughout the Chelsea game now silent.

Perhaps the music was played during the football - and at such a volume - in order to stupefy the footballing fraternity into non-violence. Maybe there is a proven link between playing the likes of Guns 'N Roses really loud during a televised football match and a lack of trouble that persuades pubs to kill the sound on the TV during games.

I toyed with the idea of looking into the psychology of the use music in situations like this. I even considered quizzing the pub's staff on the matter. But you know what? When push came to shove I couldn't be arsed. Instead I bought a steak pie from a nearby bakery and stuffed my face with it on the way home…