The bracing October wind whipped around Nev as he cupped his hand to light a cigarette. He achieved ignition and looked up at Pash and Joe. “Wellingborough,” he began, taking a long drag, “are the stuff of legend when it comes to post-match teas. You wouldn’t believe it.”

”Oh right?” retorted Joe, with an expression of dubiousness. “Find that hard to believe in the context of our division. Just a few weeks ago out in the Fens we were given a bag of Babybels and a cream cracker each post-match.” He paused, and added, “And that village hall, where we were sat back-to-back, weren’t allowed to speak and had to share a McDonald’s barbeque sauce pot among thirteen of us.”

”Yes, mate, of course,” replied Nev, as he finished his second cigarette and sparked a third. “They are top drawer. I’ll never forget that 59/60 season with Walden when I last played them. Utter class.”

Pash’s interest had been piqued. “Go on,” he prompted.

Nev finished his fourth cigarette and started his fifth. He began gesticulating among the plume of smoke, entering storytelling mode. “A long road, lined with poplar trees, leads to an extravagant stately home. You give the keys to your motor to the blokes on the door and they’ll lead you to this grand hall. Gilded Roman columns and high ceilings, fantastic artwork, like the Sistine Chapel. Two long tables the length of the room, one for each team,” he recounted, beginning his sixth cigarette.

”Sounds fancy,” remarked Joe.

”That’s just the clubhouse,” replied Nev, finishing another cigarette and lighting the eighth with the stub of the seventh. “The food is what makes it. Unbelievable decadence. Five courses, usually with a medley of different fresh meats and vegetables. On the morning of a hockey match, the chairman sends the servants out on a hunt across the estate, generally to source pheasant and venison.” The glow of the ninth cigarette illuminated Nev’s face as he continued. “The local butcher sends across their choice cuts. Burgers, ribeye steaks, sirloins, with glazes and sides beyond your wildest dreams. The servants will keep your glass topped up, too.” He polished off the tenth and stubbed it out with the heel of his right shoe.

”Ace”, replied Joe, glancing at the clock on his phone. “Shall we go? Quite a drive to this place.”

“Yeah, probably should,” agreed Nev as the surrounding plume of smoke dissipated. “I’m out of baccy anyway.”

Joe, Nev, Pash and Ollie formed the merry troupe in the mid-range Audi and left Long Road in high spirits. Talk turned from the opulence of Wellingborough teas to Defra, the Cereals conference, EU farming subsidies, and those big-eared boys who live on farms. The drive was long and arduous, the foul weather unrelenting, the traffic heavy.

The Men’s Third XI assembled at Wellingborough, with special honorary lifelong captain Matt Kern taking up the mantle of rallying the rabble into a cohesive unit. “Let’s score more than them,” boomed Kern, pumping his fists in the air and with a look of pure passion. His expression softened. “Let’s enjoy ourselves and not worry about the result.” He added, “Though the result is the most important thing today, lads. If we lose, you’re all dead to me.” Team talk over. The entire team was pumped with enthusiasm and hope. This was going to be their day.

The match was dismal. Against a backdrop of relentless rain and wind, bad tempered play from both sides ensured more cards than goals and despite a bright start, South capitulated, twice giving up a winning position. A third goal from Wellingborough and an inability to break down the opposition defence sealed the result.

Notable performances included Joe for a goal, despite being deemed “average” by Pash; all-round good play from Ciaran, who scored an excellent goal from the top of the D, despite not knowing left from right; newcomer Tom, who put in a good shift, despite not knowing that you can get a breather by subbing instead of getting sent off; and of course, Neil, who had an incredible game, despite only playing thirty seconds before retiring with an injury. The team also extended special thanks to guest goalkeeper Jo, who pulled off some excellent saves. Elsewhere, George engaged in some desperate networking in his attempts to get added to the M1s’ WhatsApp group and maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the elite South sorority.

For Joe and Pash, however, the result was merely a distraction, a footnote, an inconsequence, versus the promised bounty of lavish teas awaiting them. With eagerness, they changed quickly, though Nev did not share their haste. “Patience, lads”, he said, as he began to change. Pash exited the changing rooms, sensing a potential stitch-up.

Pash, Joe and Ollie retired to the Audi and waited patiently for Nev to finish his deep bath. Forty-five minutes later, he emerged from the changing rooms with a worried look.

”C’mon, Nev,” called Joe. “Let’s go get some of this gourmet grub you promised.”

Nev looked sheepish. “I’ve, erm, been asking around, lads,” he said with a pained expression. “I think their match teas may have changed since.”

”What do you mean?” asked Pash, with concern in his tone.

Nev avoided the question. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we?” as he piled into the back seat.

Doubt started to wash over the occupants of the car as they made their way to the agreed venue. It didn’t look like somewhere you’d find a stately home. The final destination was indeed not a stately home. It was opposite a petrol station, just past a strange establishment called Rim City. There was no long road lined with poplar trees. No grand courtyard or estate. Just a pub with flaking paint accompanied by a sinking sense among Pash and Joe that Nev, amid his chain smoking and vivid imagination, had sold them a complete fabrication.

Things did not improve as they entered the building. Hush quickly spread over the room as the outsiders entered. A banjo was audible. The skeleton of a deceased patron sat in a rocking chair in the corner. No card machine. Joe shot a look at Nev, who averted his gaze. Things were not looking good. Across the bar, a spread of plastic cutlery, bulk coleslaw and artificial yellow cheese confirmed their worst fears. 

Jacket potatoes.

Even among those that weren’t sold Nev’s lies, there was a collective sense of despair. In a grim acceptance of the reality of their situation, most of the South Threes formed an orderly queue. Adam folded his arms, engaging in a hunger strike. Jimmy placed his head in his hands, with the look of a man who’d been delivered news of a terminal illness. “No meat. No meat,” he repeated over and over as he rocked on his chair. Ollie passed out. Things were bleak.

The delirium of malnourishment was reflected in post-match voting, where nobody could really remember what had happened during the game, if anybody had played well, or indeed why they were in Wellingborough. A scattergun approach to voting, tantamount to roulette, saw, by some fluke, Pash receive Man of the Match: one vote describing the vague trappings of a good performance, whilst two votes were for “solid chat” and “top idioms”, notably “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”, made in earlier reference to the precarious nature of farming subsidies.

More unity was seen among the Lemon voting, with newcomer Tom attracting both plaudits and criticism for his inability to simply substitute rather than being asked to leave the pitch by an umpire. However, Joe and Pash exchanged knowing glances. If only they knew about Nev’s lies, they thought, then this would be a different story.

South exchanged pleasantries and paperwork with the opposing team and went on their way, unsatisfied and downtrodden, but an even frostier atmosphere was pre-empted for Nev’s troupe. On the way to the car, he attempted a peace offering. “C’mon, lads. Shall we have a beer?” he said, attempting to strike a conciliatory tone.

”Not a word, Nev. Not a word,” retorted Pash.

What a terrible day.