2# Eddie Johnson and the Quarter Pounder with cheese

Anyone who knows me will know that I’m a fantastic gambler; I always lose so that I don’t get hooked.

One catastrophic bet I made came shortly after Dave Jones had signed a certain Edward Johnson on loan from Fulham in August 2008.

Having applied the usually infallible Championship Manager test, I had assumed that Eddie would be an instant hit and decided to bet a friend of mine £50 that the American would reach double figures for the year. A work colleague had explained to me how the cyber Eddie had helped his Rushden and Diamonds side earn three consecutive promotions taking them to the Premier League. Pretty impressive I thought. Fulham had paid a lot of money to take Eddie to Craven Cottage, and I was sure that Eddie would make an impression at Cardiff City. He sure did that.

Eddie’s finest hour in a Cardiff shirt came in a 3-0 victory over Doncaster Rovers at Ninian Park, when the American scored his first goal on his 23rd appearance for the club. One of those ‘I was there’ moments.

I was also there to witness possibly Eddie’s lowest point at Cardiff. I’m not talking about his half time withdrawal against the Jacks in the Carling Cup or his own goal against Derby (which theoretically cost the club a playoff place on goal difference); oh no.  For me at least, the moment Eddie Johnson hit rock bottom at Cardiff was around 11pm on 31 January 2009 at a McDonald’s restaurant on St Mary’s Street.

We’d beaten Forest 2-0 earlier in the day and I’d been enjoying a few beers with some friends in town before I decided to go home, via McDonalds.

Now for me, eating McDonald’s is a little like cheating on your girlfriend. You’re usually drunk, it feels great while you’re doing it, but you regret it afterwards. Anyway, I ordered my Big Mac, sat down on a stool and got stuck in.

Half way through my meal a dark-skinned gentleman (completely sober by the looks of it) sat down on the stool next to me.

“Eddie Johnson isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah man,” he responded in his thick American accent.

“You enjoying things with City?”

“Yeah things are real good. I’m loving the fans and I…” Eddie paused mid-sentence as he started examining the burger he’d just removed from its box.

“What the hell man?” Eddie exclaimed, staring at his burger in disbelief.

I peered over to take a look. Eddie had removed the top layer of bread from the bun and sat directly on top of the meat was a shiny blue unopened condom wrapper.

“That’s sick man.” Eddie looked disgusted.

It was, without doubt, one of the most surreal moments of my life; there I am sat in a fast food restaurant in Cardiff and Eddie Johnson is sat to my right with a durex extra safe in his Quarter Pounder with cheese. Actually, at the time, surreal didn’t come close.

Fair play to Eddie as well, he didn’t complain or kick up a fuss, he just bid me good night and off he went, pushing his uneaten meal off a tray and into one of the bins as he left. Perhaps not a great player, but from the very brief time he was in my company, definitely a decent guy.

If Eddie does ever return to Cardiff for a visit (and let’s hope to god that it is only for a visit) I’d be happy to wager £50 that he doesn’t order a Quarter Pounder with cheese at McDonald’s in St Mary’s Street ever again. Even I would be confident of winning that bet.

1# A fight with Michael Parkinson on Wembley Way

Some days, watching Cardiff City is like watching pornography. There's plenty of action, and you can't take your eyes off it, but when it's over you wonder why the hell you spent the whole afternoon doing it.

I've had plenty of those days down the years. I guess that's what makes the good times taste so good. And boy did the 6th of April 2008 taste good.

It was the day of Cardiff City's first FA Cup Semi Final in over 80 years and there was something strange in the air as I got out of bed that morning. Strange for April at least; snow had been falling throughout the early hours and the first thing I remember seeing through the window of a London hostel was a skyline sprinkled with the white stuff. Not that I was too bothered; I had a slight hangover after the previous night's festivities and the brisk April air was just what the doctor ordered.

However, what really diverted my mind from the 12 pints of Carling I'd consumed the night before was the sudden realisation that the day had finally come. The day when Cardiff City could make it to an FA Cup Final.

I'd come to London with a few mates and we did all the usual things that many Cardiff fans did that day; we stood outside The Globe in Baker Street aiming ayatollahs at Japanese tourists passing on open top buses, we got soaked in Dai Hunt's saliva as he explained how Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink would today need to play a 'deeper role', we got robbed of £7.50 for a pie and a pint inside England HQ, and we watched Joe Ledley's glorious 9th minute volley and punched the air as if oxygen was a Swansea fan.

It might have been the beer, or it might have been the sense of occasion, but I seem to remember very little about the game itself except for Ledley's winner and Kayode Odejayi's sensational miss for Barnsley. The feeling at the final whistle was immense, almost unreal, like you'd won the lottery and pulled Cameron Diaz in one go.

But back to the morning and the light coating of snow. As our hostel was quite close to Wembley we decided to go for an early morning stroll down Wembley Way. Even though an FA Cup Semi Final was due to kick off in around 8 hours time, the place was almost deserted, like a scene from the film 28 Days Later. I say almost deserted, because about 20 metres ahead of us down Wembley Way there was a group of smartly dressed gentleman with their backs to us.

Having spotted a fairly sizeable mound of snow, I just knew I couldn't resist. The first snowball I threw at the men was a pretty poor effort, about as accurate as a Steve Tucker exclusive. The second was a beauty; catching a silver haired guy right on the back of his head. As he turned around, his hair drenched and snow sliding down his jacket, I recognised him instantly; Michael Parkinson. Now I know old Parky is a Barnsley fan and I'd just caught him with a snowball but I didn't expect him to launch a counter-attack; which he did. He missed me. I think we can safely say that Cardiff City won the snowball fight.

Not only did Parky have to watch his side lose an FA Cup Semi Final that day, but he also took a snowball to the head, messing up his hair and soaking his suit in the process. All in all, he might have wished that he’d stayed at home and watched porn.

Next story will be: Eddie Johnson and the Bacon Double Cheeseburger