Back in late April, I had a dream. It was a beautiful dream. I e-mailed the whole committee (which in truth was a 'Reply All' fail as I'd only meant to e-mail Neil). I told him/them that I had no wish to stand again for the M2s' captaincy. I explained my reasoning, which was sound. I slept on deeply, in REM bliss.

Imagine, then, my horror when the minutes of a committee meeting were circulated following a meeting last Monday and it seemed I had been signed on for a fifth consecutive leadership term.

Frantically, I googled political presidencies and drew comfort from the fact that in El Salvador it was only possible to serve one five year term. Incidentally, did you know that the Head of State/Government in San Marino is the Captain Regent, who can serve unlimited non-consecutive six month terms, but must wait for a minimum of three years until they can be elected again into this office?

Safe in the knowledge that Greaves and Sneade could be convinced to apply a Salvadorean model to the leadership of the 2s, I puffed my chest out and started trying to organise a side for our first pre-season fixture.

This was going to be a South 2nd XI shorn of some big beasts from last season. Tom Anns had been forcibly rested and told to focus on his burgeoning pilates. Barney Studdart, a man with all the latent intensity of Brian Eno's Music for Airports, had packed his corkscrew and taken off to Bath. And James Menzies was convalescing after injuring his shoulder in a particularly eager game of bridge with Annie Mac, proving that an in-joke is always better than a good joke.

They were hefty boots to fill but I had been active in the transfer market, piecing together a Billy Beane-esque selection of oddballs and misfits in a bid for belated Div 4NW glory. Entering the ranks were Bagnall, Blair and Wood, and each had the good grace to appear unperturbed whilst the old regulars pushed cones around the changing room floor in various states of undress. Watching Matt Allsopp smear Vicks VapoRub into Walshy's pigeon-chest did prove too much for some though, and so we quickly changed the subject by sauntering outside for a spot of limbering up.

It would seem a misnomer to call what followed 'dynamics' but we did at least all Sumo in reasonable formation.

Bhav and Dazza joined us at the pitch, fresh from their umpiring/1st team exertions respectively. Unfortunately the new lads never learnt their names, as we'd carried out the introductions in the changing rooms.

The game began in reasonable fashion and after only a couple of minutes Matt Kenzie, galloping around up front like a young Aslan, fired home.

Other things happened and then Kenzie scored again, proving that being a one-trick pony is just fine so long as your trick is good enough. I think Dom Reeve may have been involved in the build-up, but can't be certain.

Visagie called us in at half time and pointed out the value of fitness.

What followed was thirty-five long minutes which also pointed out the value of fitness, or at least the consequences of a lack of it. Our defensive and forward lines grew increasingly remote, waving longingly at each other from opposite ends of the field whilst our midfield grubbed along on their hands and knees, clutching for breath and praying for clemency. Jimmy Whizz had saved up some nitro-boost though and forced several hair-raising bursts down the right flank. Behind him, Tom Steed was looking another year wiser, if not another year older, consistently drawing fouls from his tigerish opponents.

Midway through the half, there was a goalmouth scramble at the visitors' end. It called for someone to be ruthless and of course there is nobody more single-minded than Jon of the Mann variety. He stabbed home and we led by three.

With clear water established, and the collective realisation that we gave up something in the region of 125 combined years to our opposition, we spent the majority of the game firmly on the back foot. There was an almighty scare when Darren was beaten by a goal-bound effort, only for Manny to appear from nowhere and calmly dribble the ball off the line. He could do nothing about Stortford's consolation effort however, making the most of a coming-together on our 23 after cleaning up the captain's mess to give away a free-hit. A piece of quick-thinking from one of the away side's young forwards saw him launch the ball straight into the circle at head-height, where their highest-placed player managed to simultaneously save his own life and complete the goal-scoring action, deflecting home past an incredulous Darren into the top right corner. One hopes we won't concede many more goals like that this season.

The team needed a boost to get us over the line, a shot in the arm, a sprinkle of gold dust to inspire the troops. Thankfully the former 2nd XI dreamboat, Harry Chalk, appeared on the horizon at just the right moment and, duly inspired, we wheezed to victory.

In summary, there were plenty of positives, not least Bhav's strong-wearing of a towelled headband (a look much-beloved of both the writer and Dire Strait's Mark Knopfler) and the pre-match truffles that Allsopp had spent the morning concocting.

We travel to Bury St Edmunds next Saturday.