Neot is one of the lesser known saints. A Westcountryman by birth, he apparently stood at four-feet tall, was known for his acts of charity, and had an excellent reverse-stick stop. I identify with him very strongly.

Notwithstanding my predilections, however, this week’s opposition had a greater claim to the tiny man than me, playing as they do under his patronage. Known colloquially as ‘The Saints’, the team play with Neot’s name emblazoned across their chest which, I suppose, cast us as the villains of the piece – Neot’s great enemies, the vikings.

And vikings we were. Having arrived in an armada of semi-decrepit Vauxhaul Novas, we leapt onto the pitch and were soon launching raid upon raid on the opposition D. Like monks tripping over their habits, the Saints were rattled, and Neot himself can only have looked down in horror from his heavenly dwelling as Baggers and Chalky scored within fifteen breathless minutes. It was a game of savage beauty. Picture the scene: our forwards making scything runs like longboats in the deep, our captain playing remarkably well with what looks like a plank from an actual longboat, our defence as well-oiled and precise as every hair in Nikesh’s moustache. It was the reformation all over again, and only divine intervention could save the poor Saints now.

Which is seemingly what happened. Were Neot’s favourite colours yellow and green? Did he detest mouthy primary school teachers? Does he simply like a good laugh? We’ll never know. What we do know is that by the end of the game we’d been shown more cards than a recent divorcee and our two-goal lead was – like Marchant’s moustache – nowhere to be seen.

Still, the banquet that followed was heavenly indeed, and there are few wounds that a good risotto cannot heal. Legend has it that Neot both scolded and counselled Alfred the Great, and I can’t help feeling that, like Alfred, we leave our encounter with the tiny saint a little bit bruised, but perhaps a little bit wiser too. Next week’s test will tell.