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In arguably the biggest nonsense of a post I have ever put to (online) print, I have considered this. Imagine the situation. Rather than all running out to the backdrop of Carmina Burana/Blur, they each get their own entrance. The music, specially selected to suit their character and style, builds the atmosphere at Fortress Carrow Road as one by one, the players emerge…

Zak Whitbread leaves the tunnel, and there is only one choice for the Scouse Yank… out of the tinny PA, power chords rock out. Defender of truth, freedom and liberty, Zak truly is a Real American.

He’s followed out of the tunnel by Russell Martin, and the soothing pop of Jermain Stewart rings around Carrow Road. We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off, croons Jermaine. But sometimes Russell does.

Suddenly there’s a crash of cymbals and out runs Mad Marc Tierney, face painted and with tassels hanging from his arms. He runs an entire lap of the pitch while in tribute to his hero and role model, the Ultimate Warrior.

After dropkicking an advertising hoarding and running straight back down the tunnel in a rush of adrenaline, the music dies down. Out steps the man, the legend, the captain – Grant Holt, and out blares Crazy Horses.

The Horse milks the crowd while the dulcet tones of The Osmonds serenade us all. But Holt isn’t the last to enter the field…

I think I’m cute… I know I’m sexy… yes, it can only mean one thing. Wes Hoolahan is out. Dancing his way down the tunnel, making us all feel like we’re on cloud nine, Wessi melts hearts. It couldn’t be anyone else. After all, he has raw sex appeal… Once Wessi has put away his leather chaps and chains, we get something altogether different.

Yes, it’s Chris Martin! (please don’t sue me)

Part 2 coming whenever I think it’s a good idea…

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