As the greatest storm to threaten the British Isles since 1957 headed for our shores, I sat in trepidation on Friday afternoon in Flood Command. A cold sweat had broken upon my brow and as I dialled the captain’s number into my phone, I noticed my shoelace was undone. I paused, letting the phone ring to see if he’d answer, then quickly lent forward and tied it before he did.

‘Yeah, hi, it’s Harry. Not sure if I’m going to make the game tomorrow, there’s a real risk of some heavy rain on the coast and I’m on call,’ I said, knowing full well that only ten hours remained between now and push-back – precious little time to save Cambridge and most of the UK from a blizzard the likes of which had never been predicted by our team before. I tried to keep calm. Tea. I need tea. As I reached the kitchen, I met Kevin. He looked awful. His skin was pasty, clammy and white and his eyes, normally alight with some plot to avoid returning home to his over-baring wife, were lifeless, peering out from black sagging bags. He can’t have slept in days. This had definitely been a long week.

‘Do you want a tea?’ I asked as I filled the kettle.

He replied, ‘I want a miracle.’ Little did he know what the next few hours would contain. Kevin was our Chief Oracle or to give his official title, Principle Advanced Meteorological Analyst. He predicted the weather. He was the broken shell of a man before me now because he’d been tracking this weather front for five days solid. With the rest of the team on a team-building exercise in Inverness, the buck stopped with me and Kevin on this one. We drank our tea in silence. Kevin could never learn of the true power contained within these hands, I thought as I sipped, warming them on my mug. ‘We put the Tea in Team’, I chuckled – I put the ‘I’ in incredible.

It was growing dark outside. The weather was turning, I could feel it. The storm was upon us and the rain was beginning to blot out what remained of the day. Only a few minutes left before I could legitimately leave without raising suspicion. I ran for the car, dodging puddles and watching the thunder clouds curl ominously overhead. I’d made it. Now to save this ancient town and keep the people of Cambridge safe from Armageddon – I’ll deal with Trump, Brexit and Putin on Monday.

I drove to Long Road, the seat of my power and the only place I knew I’d be strong enough to defeat this foe. As I arrived, dusk had fallen and I had to shield my eyes from the driving rain as I ran from the car park to the all-weather pitch. My raincoat buckled under the onslaught of water, a bucket being thrown on to, and into, my face with each gust of wind. I opened the gate and entered the ground. The floodlights were off; it was empty apart from my shadow as I grappled for the pitch handrails. I knew what I had to do.

I flung myself free of the fencing and lent into the wind, pacing forward into the blackened centre of the pitch. I could barely see the other side. My thoughts wandered: would Neil’s new pitch-side shelter withstand this type of assault? Concrete pad or no concrete pad, surely nothing could stop this hurricane of all hurricanes – only I, Ol’ Dusty, could put an end to all this madness. I reached the centre spot, ripped my rain-soaked coat, jumper and Topman T-shirt from my back and dropped to my knees. The rain and wind stung my bare chest and hurt my eyes. I held my arms aloft and called upon all my years of training. I could feel the air move around me. A fierce roaring filled my ears and I shut my eyes as the sand whipped up by the tornado engulfing me found my face. I held my ground, holding my arms, elbows locked, to the sky.

Then it hit me – like I knew it would. For the briefest of moments, the world seemed to stop. The light was unbearable; blinding, blazing, burning in its intensity. I turned my head away, it was too much. Then quiet. Peace and sleep.

I awoke as the sun breached the LMB building, flooding the pitch, not with water but with the warming rays of dawn. It must have been about 6am. I’d been unconscious all night. I pushed myself up on to my elbow. I was clothed from the waist down but my coat must have been destroyed by the storm. I looked around; the pitch was in one piece, Addenbrookes looked functioning in the distance, a pale-yellow glow emanating from its busy wards. I stood up – I was stiff. Somehow I’d done it again, I’d stopped another natural disaster in its tracks and, in doing so, saved everyone in East Anglia from certain doom. I took a step forward. Not only that but I’d managed to hold off a frost Kevin had said would happen with 99% confidence. Not bad for an evening’s work. If only I could remember how I did this each week, maybe I teach others and together we could control the world’s weather. Ah well, at least work will pick up the bill for the coat.

I showered quickly and made myself scarce until the meet-time for the game – I wouldn’t want to draw any unwanted attention. By 3pm I’d scored two goals and won MOM – all in a day’s work for Ol’ Dusty.