It had been a horrid week. A week in which a classless blonde fellow of highly questionable morality had swindled his way to somehow reach the very summit of his ambitions, much to the horror of many an onlooker. Heavy rain met us at Long Road. The world was crying.

But let’s not dwell for too long on the selection of Dom Nelson to lead the 1^st XI’s forward line this Saturday. It’s too raw.

An M2s diaspora was cast across Europe and it was a bare XI that misrepresented themselves for duty. Of the absentees, it seemed that NBM’s wife had drawn the roughest lot, being dragged along on Matt’s stout tour of our capital.

The inclement weather resulted in an unorthodox indoor warm-up. Gates were opened and closed in the closest of proximity. Sumos blurred into lunges. Manny goose-stepped on, regardless.

Play began with us stroking around a few passes, trying to starve the visitors of the ball to compound the fact that they’d just had a two hour car journey and no warm-up time. There was a bizarre amount of space available, with Rug and Engine particularly grateful as they saw plenty of the ball. As we attempted to turn up the heat, Jon went on a one-man mission to hit the right baseline and pull back a winning cross. Several ifs, butts and maybes followed, as Nev and Bartonez thundered goal-ward. It was Menzies that eventually prodded home and once we had the lead, it seemed only a matter of time before more goals followed. Even Kerny was looking dangerous, firing off a couple of loose cannons.

The casual observer might think that sending both Cooper and Anns up for attacking short corners is akin to using a sledgehammer to bake a soufflé, but there is a method to the madness as this ploy guarantees that for a few sweet minutes of every game, we can’t kick and thwack our way to defensive blunders at the other end. This week, it even generated a goal, with Menzies again the winking finisher after a typically slow and poorly executed routine.

The second period should have been one of pushing home our advantage, but it wasn’t to be. Ambling towards a sideline interception, Anns went down like a sack of spuds, claiming that his foot had inadvertently fallen off or some such, and he couldn’t continue. Aggrieved at not being taken seriously, he threw in a couple of rolls for good measure. Eventually, the doctors were called. To a man, we attested that the DNR protocol could be invoked, but a swig of Lucozade and half a Cadbury’s Boost brought him back from the brink. Sadly though, he couldn’t return to the field of play and we’d have to make do with ten.

All this called for was a bit of calm ‘keep ball’. After watching a few minutes of this, our manager decided that he may as well become player-manager and Fan Oven was plain old Oven once again. He slotted in to a sort of ‘false 12’ position, feeding off the grubby crumbs that fell from our now slightly dishevelled midfield table, which Belgian Alex was trying his best to keep tidy.

When the visitors swept in a goal of their own with ten minutes to play, a match which half an hour beforehand had seemed a formality was suddenly in the balance. Thankfully, Jon was able to extend our lead and we could retire to Cantabs. Or, in my case, an early shower that balanced the pleasures of rare gushing hot water with the ignominy of trying to get clean with cheap handsoap from the ladies’ toilets.