Saints and sinners, Hammers and sheds

How often will I have to watch the televised football game between Luton Town and Northampton Town?

It may just be my bad luck, but every time I surf the TV stations or pop into a bar showing sports channels, I end up watching that game. I mean, there may have been five goals but PLEASE no more Hatters (Luton) and Cobblers (Northampton), whether the commentary comes in Arabic or English. I feel I now know every kick, and each card, by heart.

Needless to say, I have been ignoring England's latest sporting setback and exploring the options for catching Sunderland's game at West Ham live on Sunday. Sunday is a working day in Abu Dhabi but the three-hour time difference means I should be away in time to see it live.

But where to go? I have located an expats' hangout that used to be called the British Club, and is still known by that name to taxi drivers although, in the spirit of inclusiveness, it has dropped the "British".

Inclusiveness comes at a price; the waiting list for membership is a mile long, though I did manage to sign up for a one-month visitor's card when I turned up, as a Romanian member's guest, for a quiz night on my first full night here.

I also acquired an Australian badminton partner; he's a lot younger and recalls captaining his team at school or college. But he hasn't played for years and suffers from migraine so there's got to be hope.

Most of you probably think badminton is, in any case, a soft game for girls to play on the beach. So back to more important matters. What have I decided to do for West Ham v Sunderland?

There are options. The Third Avenue, a German bar where I actually found Guinness and fish & chips on the menu, promises there'll be no live music to drown out the footie as there was tonight (during, it has to be said, yet another re-run of Luton v Northampton, so the drowning out was welcome).

But another Sunderland supporter who already lives here, encountered somewhere in a partisan corner of cyberspace, has offered a couple of alternatives, a bar called Heroes and another where they also show live games. At the latter, says Abu Dhabi fellow fan, you should be "wary of the Chinese hookers".

I suspect it will be Third Avenue for the rugby - more for the sense of occasion than for a sport I barely understand, despite having that brother who played and now referees it - and the Club formerly known as British for the weekend's really important fixture.

And among my new colleagues in Abu Dhabi, I have already found a charming Canadian newlywed who is either anxious to learn or willing to humour those with whom she works.

Perhaps it has something to do with being temporarily separated from her husband so early in married life, but Laura has quickly got the hang of chanting Ha'way the Lads, to the impressive extent of appreciating the distinction between Ha'way and Ho'way (a North Eastern tribal difference - people Sunderland and most of County Durham say Ha'way, meaning "come on, my good chaps" whereas Newcastle folk opt for Ho'way when uttering the same rallying cry).

And tonight, I think, Laura mastered My Garden Shed.

This is a song belted out to the tune of When the Saints Go Marching In, and it gently mocks supporters of teams that play at small, inferior grounds (Sunderland's home is the majestic Stadium of Light).

My Garden Shed is bigger than this My Garden Shed is bigger than this It's got a door and a window My Garden Shed is bigger than this
Harmless nonsense of the kind that often, the Hammers-supporting Roads of Stone will be pleased to note, inspires the opposition to score. Since West Ham's modest home is Upton Park, armchair football spectators - including those exiled in far off parts of the world - can expect the song to get an airing or two on Sunday.