After a week in which the Cambridge News had ran such worrying headlines as What would happen if a North Korean nuclear bomb hit Cambridge?, I was in a state of some emotional disquiet by the time Saturday morning came around. My mind was full of other terrifying questions…

What would happen if the water table in Rutland rose by three feet?

What if Tom Anns' hamstrings are now in a worse state than his table manners?; and

What, oh what, will be in Jan's preview e-mail this week?

I was truly in a dark place and needed the warmth of my teammates' collective bosom.

The majority of us poured into the Long Road changing rooms at the ungodly hour of 9.45am, where the distinct aroma of Matt Kenzie was shortly to join us, to be followed approximately eight minutes later by his physical presence.

The Great White Mann and habitual librarian-seducer, James Menzies, were both unavailable for selection this week, but in Bhav, Mark Williams and Wizard, we were fortunate to have able replacements in waiting. Also welcomed back in from the cold was Sam Polge, looking for all the world as if he had just jetted in from a 1970s New York, fresh from chewing the cud with Richard Hell and Tom Verlaine.

By the time 10.30 came around, I had remembered that we were playing Cambridge City. They are right up there at the business end of the table and so it was imperative that we engineered some sort of positive result.

The opening exchanges were relatively even, with both teams offering a couple of batted eyelashes and slapped wrists. Tom Anns, the little brother that, growing up, I never realised that I never wanted, was much to the fore, with his peculiar brand of ooh-lunge-fall-smirk-tackle proving especially effective. A combination of his idiosyncratic defending and the City boys' own predilection for blind alleys kept the back door closed, whilst at the other end, Jack Chalk smudged around for opportunities of his own.

Thirty-five minutes in and we raced into the huddle, where Now-fully-re-Bearded Matt Allsopp was waiting with some typically abstract tactical advice. Triangles are my favourite shapes, yeah? he intoned wisely. Two lines where three points meet.

I could see a few confused faces as I looked around my teammates. Now, Matt's reading of a game can sometimes be beyond impenetrable, but it was clear that today he was really suffering the after-effects of a 24-hour London binge of rum, stout and the general lash with Owen. Like a fierce storm, or the tantrum of a small child, I thought we might be best to wait until he blew himself out.

Toe to toe. Back to back, yeah? Let’s tessellate.

Ok. Waiting it out wasn't going to be an option. I needed to intervene, but with his jazz-bugle breathing trick, it was hard to get a word in edgeways. I was fortunate to be able to call on People's Champion, Harry Chalk, to cause a quick distraction and eventually I was able to wrestle conversation back toward the conventional.

Both teams were fired up, and threw themselves at the second period with all the testosterone gusto they could muster. This being Cambridge, it was rather like watching two myopic stags ask each other increasingly esoteric trivia questions.

Polge went close for us. Darren was pressed into action in goal. Holgate shimmered. Douglas as usual put his Scottish roots, curls and fringe on the line. At the death, Kenzie unleashed two mighty blows from his auburn hammer, but the deadlock couldn't be broken.

As we stepped off the field of play, I caught Allsop's voice on the wind. His team-talk was still ongoing, it seemed. Steepled fingers, ring leaders, queue jumpers, rock fist paper scissors, lingered fluffers, yeah? Do you know where the wild things go? They go along to take your honey, la la la la. For all I know, he may not yet have finished.