Burnley successfully carried out a couple of smash and grab raids on their football travels last week.

First up, after gaining entry to the Reebok Stadium they were confronted by the homeowners in the form of “The Trotters”.

No, not Del Boy, Rodney and Uncle Albert, this was Bolton Wanderers, who went on to defend their territory with all the resistance you would expect when threatened by determined intruders intent on stealing the spoils.

But all retaliatory attacks were solidly defended, before the Clarets nicked a goal, and headed off towards the Moors with their valuable haul of three precious points safely tucked away in their escape vehicle. Then came the storms of Biblical proportions which battered most parts of the country with Bournemouth, the venue for our next planned heist suffering particularly badly.

My seven hour train journey down on Friday had been extensively delayed by the odd silver birch or two that had been blown down and blocked the line.

Although the surface wasn’t conducive to skillful football, it was game on, and avoided the unwanted inconvenience of a rearranged night match.

In a poor game of few chances we pinched another point with a goal from substitute Keith Treacy that wasn’t dissimilar to Sam Vokes far post strike at Bolton the previous Tuesday. So four points taken from two tricky away trips keeps us bang on track.

I returned to my bed and breakfast budget digs that were more Fawlty Towers than Trump Towers, run by Alan, a Bournemouth season ticket holder who I had engaged in some friendly banter during my stay, or so I thought.

I’m not saying he bore any grudges but my Sunday morning breakfast had taken a change for the worse from the previous day.

I was served two fried eggs that resembled burst blisters, a sausage that could have passed for a stubbed out cigar, and two slices of bacon that looked more dachshund than Danish! Some people can take football far too seriously.

Ah well, at least the Clarets brought home the bacon.