Two of the most potent words in the sporting vocabulary at the moment are surprisingly nothing to do with West Ham or even cricket's ball tampering. They are surely… cash flow.

As the snow has continued to fall and the rearranging of fixtures remains a necessary preoccupation, club secretaries – in some cases striving unsuccessfully to pay their players – have every reason to wonder anxiously how it will end.

Although incurring added expense with the ingeniously devised 'dome', backed up by a tireless groundstaff team, Bristol City defiantly ensured that Tuesday's FA Cup tie with Cardiff would go ahead.

There have been plenty of other examples, maybe eventually frustrated, of clubs trying manfully to keep their games on. Understandably modest crowds meant however that financial returns were relatively negligible. But at least there was some money coming through the turnstiles.

As for the players, they kicked the snow off their boots and did their best to try to stage a proper game of football in a fixture of still fiscal importance.

If they win the replay and go on to play Leicester, it will lift spirits in a season without too many moments to cherish so far.

Tuesday's game reminded me of a tie City played against Leicester in the fourth round of the cup 40 years ago. Gordon Banks was in goal for the Midlanders, but there was nothing for him to do after the interval. The match was abandoned when mud and slush obliterated the touchlines, turning the squelching spectacle into something between an ice rink and a ploughing match. It was sheer farce. Most of the well intentioned passes stopped dead after five or 10 yards.

You couldn't recognise anyone in their mud-spattered shirts. I was in the press box at Leicester that day and I still remember the despairing grins on the players' faces. Tommy Carey conveyed a touch of welcome humour. Bobbie Etheridge must have wished he was back behind the wicket for Gloucestershire – and chummy full-back Gordon Hopkinson at home strumming his guitar.

Around about the same period, in a Division Two game, City travelled to Notts County and found themselves battling for points in a fierce and sudden snowstorm.

In a long, off-the-cuff running report for the Pink 'Un (for whom I then worked) I dictated meaningless jargon about the game, even though the players, phantom figures, only occasionally flitted vaguely into my vision.

At least I got the score right. City won by the only goal, snatched between the snow flakes by that popular ace predator Bert Tindill, who had followed Peter Doherty down from Doncaster.

That night, I travelled back on the train with Bert. He was his own man and an insatiable talker.

It took this likeable man the whole of the way back to Temple Meads explaining to me why Catholics ate fish on Fridays. I am sure we also had a word about how he was apt to tumble so convincingly near the penalty box.

Congratulations to the Somerset pair, Pete Trego and Craig Kieswetter, and Gloucestershire's Steve Kirby on their deserved selection for the England Lions squad. James Hildreth would surely have joined them if, after his triple hundred, his form hadn't slipped away so badly.

And a final cricket observation. Going back to the summers of Jack Hobbs and Percy Fender, there was a tendency for retiring top players to augment their pay packet with some part-time cricket writing. These days, Mike Atherton and Nasser Hussain have, with skill, made a new career out of it.

Yet, here comes an interesting point. Will their friendship with former playing colleagues persist? It is rumoured that most of the England team remain furious with Michael Vaughan over one or two of his recent dressing-room intimacies and strong opinions. My sympathies are inclined to side with Vaughan.