Filled with pissed National Front rejects isn't it? Dressed up as a Smurf or Where's Wally or whatever telling their mum's to get on with the ironing on little plastic sheets.
Big old chants about nothing. Leering at cheerleaders and a mixture of Top Gear soundtrack stalwarts with 90s pillhead classics pouring like radioactive treacle through the speakers of some rotten Victorian warehouse.
Then the sport itself, sweating uncharismatic bin bags throwing metal at a cork for an hour.