I would be better not to tell you what happened in the locker room, but everyone got it, including my Cameroonian, although I think he did his best. However old man Harris needed blood and fresh meat and finally, he told everyone to get out, and promised that if we lost we would all be walking home.

Apparently it worked as during the second half, the blokes went all out and my ward was also in top form. First during one of his attacks he almost reached the point where he could have struck from the left flank and if it had not been for their defender, who knocked the ball away at the last moment, we would have scored. Then, from one of the corners, Fleming spun the ball right into Iron Mikey's bald head, and Iron Mikey had no choice but to score. It was his first goal of the season and in fact I don't remember him scoring last season either, but Mikey is Mikey and he didn't even change the expression on his mug, as if everything was how it was supposed to be. He just tore the ball away from their defenders and took it to centre pitch.

After that, the score stayed the same until the last minutes. United was already doing everything they could to run out the clock, old man Harris was raging on the sidelines and the referee kept checking his stopwatch, trying to decide whether to go straight to the judge room or give us a couple more minutes of stoppage time. Their fans began to sing their sad song, which they should have considered a victory song, while ours just yelled, spat at security and tossed all sorts of rubbish onto the pitch. In general, everything was going as usual, another lost cup match on the road, but then all of a sudden my cannibal did something unexpected.

Who knows whether it was something he picked up in Belgium, or something they teach them at the Ajax school, but he suddenly abandoned his flank and went on the attack with our central defender, the big Icelander Sigurdsson, who had already been playing second striker for the last five minutes.

You had to see it. At that moment the game was reduced to the good old "kick the ball forward and you’ll see, something good will come out of it". In fact I don't even remember which of the blokes put the ball into the penalty box. Sigurdsson was struggling, the ball somehow flew up sideways out of the havoc, where Parker also missed it, so that the ball now flew up somewhere at a level just above the waist. And then Fabrice performed a scissor kick, I don't know how he did it in the fight against their defender, but the fact remains. Our Cameroonian folded, executed the scissor kick and the ball bounced off the turf and went straight into the goal! That was it, so much for "a pinch of snuff", or "a Night Out in Sheffield".

Most of all, however, I felt sorry for the judge. The wanker was probably already getting ready to go to the pub with his co-conspirators on the sidelines, and then bang! Added time, and then there might be a penalty. The United fans had forgotten all about their "packet of Woodbines" and were roaring and whistling and hooting, but they were nowhere near as loud as our idiots. Our people staged a real orgy in the guest sector. How little the blokes needed to be completely happy!

"Parker! You fucking bastard!" Harris couldn't contain his excitement, either. "How could you not hit the ball, you bitch? What the fuck is this?! After every training session I'll have you hitting rugby balls for half an hour! Do you understand me, you fucking Pinocchio?"

"I love you too, Coach!" he said, proving what a wanker he was.