By Trevor Davis -

As I write this I'm half lying on my sofa, with one foot in the air and the other strapped up on top of a pillow. It's now two days since I finished my first game for the local pub side. It wasn't a health kick, don't worry, it was an attempt to get a date with the new barmaid and demonstrate my footballing prowess. I'd seen her ex-boyfriend wander into the pub on a Sunday, somewhat muddy, waiting for his complimentary pint. To be honest, I wanted some of that.

Anyway, I signed my name the dotted line and said I'd be available for selection immediately. 'Luckily' for me someone pulled out and I was in the team, with a match in two days time. Now I'm not rubbish at football, but I'm not particularly fit either. Something had to give and I was willing to put a large sum of money on it being my calf muscle. What could I do? I'd signed up and was ready to take up my position in midfield, cue last minute jogging around the house and some rather unpleasant stretches.

Sunday was matchday, judgement day and more importantly the day when I got an orange quarter at half-time from the very pretty barmaid. I turned up at the pub at around lunchtime, with two hours to go until kick-off. Jimmy-three-chins was already there, chatting away about how many people he was going to pummel into the ground when the game kicked off. Significantly, most of the team were knocking back pint after pint, so I joined in. I had a quick jar of Guinness, a pack of nuts and a coke. Not exactly the perfect pre-match meal, but it wasn't as bad as Jimmy. He was passed out on the floor and some of his crisps had got crushed in between the folds of his neck. It wasn't pretty, but after a swift kick from the landlord he soon woke up.

I think the worst thing about the start of the game was how cold it was. My knees felt like they were being hollowed out and everything was turning blue. Once the game got going I was enjoying the running, building up a sweat and actually feeling like I was comfortable in the outside temperature. First blood went to the Lamb's Leg team, their captain head butted his own goalpost at a corner and split his forehead open. After a quick sub the Lamb's Leg team went 1-0 up after some sloppy play from our centre-backs. The whistle blew for half time and I headed over for refreshments.

The barmaid gave me a cheeky smile and we engaged in some light conversation, I munched my orange and commented that we should go for a drink after. She seemed keen, so I smiled and said that I looked forward to the final whistle. Little did I know her ex-boyfriend was standing to the left of us, he'd turned up late and was now just about to come on as a sub. He literally growled at me, there was drool running down his chin and his eyes seemed to vibrate in their sockets.

With ten minutes to go I picked up the ball on the right wing. I looked up, socks down and made a move towards the opposition half. The barmaid's ex seemed to be closing in on me, I wasn't ready to pass but it got to the point where he was blocking my path. I was forced to nutmeg him and I headed for the box. I pulled back my right leg and prepared to hit a shot when the bloke smashed his knee into my left thigh. Everyone else just stopped and stared as we had a full blown fight there and then. I grabbed his hair and pulled it back as he rammed his studs into my knee joint. The St John's Ambulance people couldn't get to us in time and Jimmy-three-chins did what he promised. He jumped on the guy, and I closed my eyes, unable to look.