I have 8 minutes to sum up my day of football yesterday.

Proper kickaround in the afternoon on a bona fide Astroturf pitch down in Southwark - I wore my Wednesday shirt with pride. I even ran around a lot for about 10 minutes. My energy levels dropped pretty steeply after that, so I had to rely on my killer first touch (dead after an hour) and Sheringham-esque 'extra three yards in my head' (still going now - walking down the street, I'm seeing passes left, right and centre - it's a curse as well as a gift, you see). It was a great game, football always is - brings to mind Ron Manager for the first time in a while - jumpers for goalposts, small boys in a park, isn't it? The turf was painful for sliding (something Joel didn't seem entirely aware of - literally his first touch was a reckless sliding tackle, which he somehow performed on his knees, thus removing a fair portion of skin from his right leg) but lovely for quick, precise one-touch football - something few of the players seemed consider.

Rob provided a few Hargreaves moments, while Jamie could not only control the ball on his chest (which pretty much earned you a hot girlfriend at my old school) but also had a supernatural ability to expel any air from my lungs whenever I ran into him. He'd just wander off with the ball and I'd be wheezing and semi-vomming. My only brief victory came with a nut-meg. If we were in a nickname situation (e.g. 5-a-side team - which has been mooted for the autumn) then he'd be The Wall. Rob would probably be The Cement (which is a good thing).

Off up to Euston to watch The Match. Ref ruined it as a contest. Joel looked depressed. I felt a bit shit. Everyone's legs ached to high heaven. Joel looked a bit more depressed. Barca scored twice in 6 minutes. Joel looked like he would cry.

Shit my time is almost up. Great day, shame about the result and my fitness.