At times like this, you realise you aren't as fit as you used to be.

"Michael, fancy football on Wednesday?"
"Where is it?"
"Goals in Kirkstall"
"Sure, put me down"




The above exchange is th first mistake in my new job since joining three weeks ago. Long story short, I goot roped into a 5-a-side kickabout with a few lads from work - it's good to make an effort and blend in after all.

So anyway, Wednesday comes and we arrive at a well-hidden 'soccer centre' which is essentially a field of astro turf divded onto lots of little boxes where people such as myself can make idiots of themselves. My sports playing days were long over. I'd played rugby until the age of 16 but the time came to get a part-time job instead because I quite liked having some money to spend.

Having scored the first goal after a few minutes, it started to go downhill from there and my lack of match practise soon caught up with me. I soon learned that performing a slide tackle on astro-turf would make a cheap alternative to a skin-grafting operation (or at least half of one) and that beer and pie does not make forr a good sporting diet.

Two days later and my thighs were still tight.

Perhaps it's one of those symbolic things. I write this just one day after the 33rd anniversary of this piece of footballing brilliance. The resemblence to the standard I displayed on Wednesday night is uncanny: