AH, the FA Cup. Where dreams are realised, heroes are discovered in the deepest depths of anonymity and the underdog is plated in gold and exalted on high as a temporary deity.

Words like ‘magic’ and ‘wonder’ are absent-mindedly stapled to the competition’s very being and booming orchestral music accompanies archived footage of dank non-league grounds being ‘lit up’ by moments of ‘unbridled delight’.

For such a quintessentially British tournament, it’s all a little melodramatic. But that’s not why I can’t stand it.

No, for me - a 26-year-old Swindon Town supporter - the FA Cup has been little more than a torture chamber equipped with the very latest gadgets designed to inflict the most acute pain in the most sensitive places.

It didn’t used to be this bad. In fact, my first taste of the world’s oldest knockout cup was a pleasurable one.

It was 95/96, Robson and Jerome were top of the singles charts, combat boots and cargo pants were in vogue and Shaun Taylor was beating up opposing strikers with his forehead.

Town saw off Cambridge, Woking, Cardiff and Oldham to reach round five where they were drawn to face Southampton at home.

I remember standing in the Town End, trying desperately to peer over the heads of those in front of me and then trying desperately to keep my balance as Kevin Horlock fired Swindon in front only for Gordon Watson to equalise with 15 minutes left.

Back then, aged nine, it really was all about the ‘magic’ and the ‘wonder’. I’d soon learn that the whole event was a cruel facade designed to lure me into coming back for more - like a slot machine paying out £2.50 on its first spin before emptying the unsuspecting punter’s life savings.

Less than a year later, Town entered in the third round and were handed a trip to Everton. It was to be my first ever away match following the Robins. Unwrapping those tickets underneath the Christmas tree I was practically giddy with excitement.

Oh, the naivety.

Ian Culverhouse was sent off after 52 seconds, Swindon went a goal down moments later, I cried, Town ended up losing 3-0 with nine men, I cried again and we endured a six-hour coach ride back in an atmosphere more morose than an Eeyore family funeral.

Fastforward 12 months and the same, misplaced optimism abounded ahead of the visit of Stevenage in round three. I vividly remember informing my dad in Burger King that Town would win 4-1 and Mark Walters would score first.

I guess I could count myself half-right. Walters almost broke the net with his fifth-minute strike to put Swindon in front before the occasion took a dark turn.

Jason Solomon equalised for the then non-league Boro and, as howling gales did their best Big Bad Wolf impression and the County Ground began to feel a little apocalyptic, Giuliano Grazioli blew Town’s house clean over with the winner for the minnows.

A blessed period of mediocrity followed in the competition, as the Robins could only manage wins over Ilkeston and Gateshead over the following three years, before a trip to Maine Road - another doomed Christmas present - ended in a 2-0 defeat during which Eyal Berkovic became the first footballer to manage a synchronised dive.

In the past decade my own personal FA Cup nightmare has also included defeat to the Old Enemy, made worse by the fact it was broadcast live so a nationwide audience could see it, batterings at Wycombe and Boston, penalty shootout woes at Barnet and that quite ridiculous loss to Histon in the first round in 2008.

In more recent seasons Town’s FA Cup heart monitor has shown more signs of activity. There was a third-round adventure in 2010 and the wonderful giantkilling of Wigan in 2012, but Swindon have still been beaten at home by non-league sides twice since 2009.

And that sums up this competition for me. Devilish, dastardly, bordering on the sadist, the FA Cup’s fetish for teasing Town fans with the possibility of success only to twist the knife with a cackle has been going on for the best part of two decades. Let’s hope those demons are exorcised this afternoon.

  • SOMETIMES things are said at football grounds that make you genuinely feel ashamed to be part of a group.

Sadly, last Saturday was one such instance. Chanting ‘murderer’ at Lee Hughes is not big, funny or clever, regardless of your IQ. It’s a moronic song sung by morons who will only encourage more morons to be even more moronic.

The best terrace tunes are witty, impassioned or both. This was vulgar. You don’t have to like Hughes, and not many do, to recognise that.

  • IT SEEMS Shane Warne has swapped one brand of spin for another after his latest unsavoury tirade.

The world’s greatest ever leggy, now devoting his time in the media to producing a seemingly endless stream of propaganda for Australian skipper and close friend Michael Clarke, has whetted his acid tongue for another remarkable attack on a series of apparently random targets - including an Aussie legend.

This week Warne announced England would be “crucifying” themselves if they stick with Joe Root as an opener for this winter’s Ashes series, that Alastair Cook was “boring and unimaginative” in his captaincy and that former Australia captain Ricky Ponting’s memories of Clarke were tinged with “jealousy”.

Warne’s long-standing friendship with Clarke is well-known and by the week it is becoming more obvious that Australia are using the floppy-haired rogue to do their dirty work in the media.

But even Joseph Goebbels would have had difficulty convincing the masses that the captain with the best win percentage record of all time, with 48 Test victories from 77 attempts, would view Clarke’s stats with envy.

And notions that Cook is unwilling to use leg slips or leg gullys while Clarke uses such field placings as a matter of course were quickly nonsensed by highlights from last summer when Cook caught Clarke off Root at leg slip.

Perhaps his recent romantic reconciliation with Liz Hurley has helped Warne lose his senses, but it’s highly unlikely. This is top-drawer spin from the man who span better than anyone.