Dinton Casuals follow in the footsteps of Diego Maradona

Like England, Dinton Casuals have always been a 4-4-2 sort of a team.

So there was an audible murmur of confusion in the crowd at the Hawker stadium on Sunday when the team ran out and immediately adopted a more defensive 5-3-2.

The aim, clearly, was to stifle Spectra’s No.10, and the tactical switch worked excellently, with Chris Tabron operating as a sweeper behind the back four. Spectra had very few shots on goal throughout the game.

The downside of the tactical switch was that Dinton had to abandon the opportunity to exploit any offside movements from Spectra.

5-3-2 also meant our midfielders had to work harder to deny them possession. Spectra’s red-booted defender (I think they were Nike Talaria IV firm ground, but I’m not sure – I forgot to ask him afterwards) enjoyed a degree of freedom down the left that possibly made him look better than he actually was.

Bear in mind, though, that 5-3-2 is just a conservative version of the more attacking 5-3-2. Provided our full backs are prepared to work as attacking wing backs when there’s an opportunity, there’s no reason not to use it again in future.

There’s a very interesting book called Inverting the Pyramid: A History of Football Tactics, which explains that the 5-3-2/3-5-2 came into being with the 1986 Argentina World Cup side.

Argentina’s then manager, the defensively minded Carlos Bilardo, believed that in any team you need seven outfield players to defend and three to attack. But he could afford such a negative approach because one of his three attacking players happened to be Diego Maradona, then in his prime.

Anyway, 3-5-2 has given the world Andreas Brehme (who got that jammy deflected goal against England in the 1990 World Cup semis), Roberto Larcos (as Pro-Evolution Soccer calls him) and the evil Ashley Cole. Richard Hodgson and Rog are two wing backs who could hold their heads high in such company if the Casuals were to adopt 5-3-2 regularly in the future.

When Spectra scored 20 minutes into the second half, Dinton reverted to a 4-4-2, which meant Coman Wakefield, top scorer by some considerable distance for the last two seasons, could return to the attack.

The return of the prodigal pad

Yesterday’s draw with Malden Manor was, I suppose, ultimately disappointing. They’re a team we usually do reasonably well against, and this season’s good form might have led people to imagine the game would be a bit of a walkover.

However, this particular cloud carried one undoubted silver lining: the miraculous reappearance of my missing shinpad. Andy Moore returned the stayaway leg protector to me in the changing room before the game.

Now, I’m not going to say that the prodigal pad necessarily made any difference to the way I played on Sunday. That would be ridiculous. That would be like attributing my magnificent goal-poaching form this season to the purchase of a new pair of boots last autumn.

But it was undoubtedly the case that I could ride tackles and chase down opponents with greater confidence, knowing that both legs now enjoyed the full protection of Sondico’s world-famous fibreglasss shin sleeve.

I’ll wager that one particular tackle from behind that I suffered by the touchline in the first half would have left me carrying a serious injury but for the presence of my trusty bone protectors.

And by the way, do you know what a pair of greaves are? Look it up next time you’re by a dictionary. You’ll be amazed.

The accompanying photos are of my shinpads, returned from yesterday’s game and enjoying a celebratory meal together in the kitchen, accompanied by a bottle of Pouligny Montrachet.

Per ardua ad astra, sort of thing

One of the most disappointing aspects of this season has been the number of games that have had to be cancelled. The fact is, though, that it’s not simply a question of the groundsman deciding to give himself an easy life.

I probably have a greater insight than most into the mind of Johnny Groundsman, and I can tell you that he likes nothing more than the sight of 22 overweight, balding near-geriatrics trundling over his fresh-cut turf.

Just as for us the Sunday morning game is an opportunity to express our inner selves, our creative urges, our pent-up aggressions and our often ambivalent feelings towards our fellow man, so for the groundsman it offers a chance to assess the judiciousness of his horticultural explorations over the preceding seven days.

And haven’t we all paused to wonder as we trot gracefully out onto the Hawker pitch (our limbs primed, our minds clear, our focus sharp and unyielding) at the small linear grooves left in the turf by the groundsman’s spiked roller? Haven’t we pondered the sheer brute force required to create those small, deep, perfectly formed holes at each corner of the pitch that, for 90 minutes each Sunday, become the receptacles for the four corner flags?

So next time you consider lynching the groundsman, let your hand be stayed. Rather, direct your anger towards those who’ve nurtured a culture of litigation in this country, so that sometimes it seems we’re taking an inordinate risk even in the very act of walking and breathing and being human.

When I joined the Casuals some eight years ago, I remember playing one away game down at the Kew FC pitch in Ham. We waited around for what seemed like hours before the home team showed up. We were then escorted to changing rooms apparently held together by encrusted mud from the boots of generations of previous occupants, and we ended up playing the game on a pitch so hard that I actually cut my hand and knee quite badly on the one occasion when I fell over.

But did I consider suing the hosts for this inconvenience? No, it never crossed my mind. It never occurred to anyone on the pitch that day that the rock-hard ground made injury considerably more likely. Nor, for that matter, did I ever think during my rugby-playing schooldays that I ran the risk of drowning in the event of a scrum collapse on top of one of the many puddles dotted about the St Benedict’s School playing field.

In one sense, of course, it is right that our society places such a high value on human well-being. The average lifespan of a UK male is nearly 80. But aren’t we made stronger by physical adversity? Isn’t it a question of no pain, no gain? I mean, who wouldn’t relish the opportunity of playing football against a team of Eskimos on the edge of a huge iceberg fringed by a 300ft vertical drop into a freezing-cold sea below?

A shinpad who was also a bloody good friend

My shinpad, the one that “went missing” from the Hawker Centre last week, was in fact a lovely little chap with a bubby, spirited personality. He was a bit like a cross between the Carphone Warehouse walking mobile phone and the crab that featured in the Carling ad (man washes up on desert island; crab shows man fridge full of Carling; man eats crab).

In the past, if ever I was alone at home during the day, I’d pop downstairs into the side passage where I keep my football boots and trophies and things (including a framed copy of the contract they wanted me to sign after my Manchester United trial), and I’d have little imaginary chats with my pads.

The pad that’s gone missing (we’ll call him “Paddy” for simplicity’s sake) would always cheer me up with a kind word if I was feeling down. For example, on the rare occasions when I felt I’d played badly for the Casuals, he’d invariably chip in with a word of encouragement. “Don’t you worry, Mr Mark, sir,” he would seem to say, “it wasn’t your fault that you missed that gaping open goal. Oh, no, Mr Mark. Don’t you fret your good self.” (There was definitely a whiff of the Charles Dickens about Paddy).

I really felt that even if my world was collapsing in on me, Paddy would always be there: an inanimate object, certainly, but one endowed with the virtues of good humour, patience and loyalty.

There are not many people who can talk with such affection about their shinpads, and the fact that I can perhaps demonstrates what an unusual shinpad Paddy was. I fear that I will not see his like again.

If you also have a shinpad that you've come to regard as a friend, why not post a comment on this blog?

Dinton's No.17 shirt - in his prime

There was an interesting article in the newspaper at the weekend on the subject of people’s “guilty pleasures”. The mathematician Marcus du Sautoy (interesting twat name) listed his guilty pleasure as football shirts.

Read what he has to say below, then just ask yourself: who is it who plays in Dinton Casuals’ number 17 shirt? And then ask yourself: who is the team's joint top scorer since the middle of November?

“My guilty pleasure: my number 17 Recreativo Hackney football shirt. Every footballer cares about the number shirt they play in…

“When the shirts of Recreativo Hackney get pulled out of the kitbag on a Sunday morning, I wait patiently until the 17 shirt appears, then grab it possessively. As a mathematician, each number has its own special character for me. 17 is a prime number, an indivisible number. The ancient Chinese thought numbers had sexuality and primes for them were the macho numbers, essential for surviving Recreativo’s battles on the Hackney Marshes...

“I know that my obsession with my shirt number is no more than superstitious nonsense and goes against the analytic rational mind that I use the rest of the week. But when my team were languishing at the bottom of the Super Sunday League Division 2, I persuaded them to change our kit and we all now play in prime numbers, from 2 to 43. The next season we got promoted into the first division. That’s proof enough for me of the power of numbers.”

You can read the full Guardian article by clicking here.

In Pleasantville no-one can hear you scream

Just as in Manhattan, where if you stray beyond a certain grid number (is it 125th?) you find yourself in some of Gotham’s meaner streets, so in Kingston if you wander from your perfumed enclave south of Richmond Road you’re liable to encounter a few – how shall I put this – things that go bump in the night if you’re not careful.

So let’s linger awhile among the mincing metrosexuals who clog up Pleasantville-Upon-Thames (epicentre: Eastbury Road) with their bonhomie and their nauseating good-neighbourliness and general niceness and those beatific smiles that make you think they’ve just come from an audition for a starring role in the Shining Happy People video.

Because for the last two Sunday mornings the smug, self-satisfied air around Pleasantville has been rent by uncomprehending screams of “But what are they saving it for? What the frigging fuck are they saving it for?”

The “they” in this case refers to groundsmen in the Kingston area in general, and specifically those based at the Hawker Centre and the Tiffin sports ground. “It” refers, of course, to the grounds that they tend.

And the owner of the voice that produced these blood-curdling screams? Not Ueli Lehmann, who, as a denizen of Pleasantville, has made his peace with the world and who sees football merely as a step along the path to spiritual enlightenment. No, the sounds emanate from Sniffer Towers, a bohemian enclave a couple of doors down from Ueli Acres owned by art Svengali and impresario Paul Stafford.

And the fact is, I completely endorse the sentiment behind the Snifferman's banshee wails - as does every single person who plays for Dinton Casuals and every player in every team that we play against.

We could ask the question another way: what is the point of having a sports ground to play winter sports on if you prevent those sports from being played as soon as winter conditions materialise?

I’m a pathetic and slightly weird human being, so I actually went down to the Hawker Centre this morning to investigate. I found a sunlit vista (see earlier blog), a hint of frost underfoot, and a ground which, though still engorged with rainwater, was nevertheless eminently playable-on. Judge for yourself (although the pictures here actually make it looker more overcast than it was).

And note the clock on the above picture - set at just before 10.30am, conjuring images of desultory pre-match shots at goal, laughable Gary Neville-style attempted crosses, and half-hearted keepy-uppy sessions. Oh happy times!

The tunnel of life is a many-portaled passage

For most of us life is a long, dark, descending tunnel. We progress along it, sometimes fitfully, sometimes confidently, but always moving downwards, always in the dark. And always alone.

As we fumble and pad towards death, we encounter the occasional door along the way. These doors are labelled. If we're lucky we chance upon a door marked Love. We open it and emerge out of our tunnel into a meadow suffused with colour, from the deep green of the grass to the azure blue of the sky.

But sooner or later the sky clouds over and the grass turns yellow, then brown. A man appears over the brow of a hill, wearing white gloves and a serious expression (think Max Wall). He rests a hand on our shoulder and ushers us back into the tunnel.

The more fortunate among us pass other doors on our inexorable path towards non-being. There's a door bearing the legend Alcohol and another labelled Mind-expanding hallucogens. There's also a door marked God (see earlier blog).

Among the commonest is the door marked Cigarettes. Step across it and you find yourself in a friendly, noisy, smoke-filled room. And what's particularly interesting is that it’s a room many great footballers have passed through.

In fact, you could compile a World XI of great footballing smokers to give any team a run for its money. Nearly all goalkeepers smoke (Dave Brooks a rare exception), so you can take your pick from your Yashins and your Zoffs. Gascogine, Cruyff, Greaves, Maradona, Bowles, Ginola (a rogues gallery if ever I saw one) were also all partial to a puff.

So to what end these dark musings? Well, I was just wondering whether, over a 90-minute game played in the cauldron that is the Hawker Centre, a team comprising the Dinton smokers would outplay the clean-living Dinton non-smokers. Here are your squads –

Smokers: Poulton, Gordon, Moore, Woods, Cross, Edwards, Rogers, Banghu, Giblin, McCann (cigars). Substitute: Ratty.

Non-smokers: Brooks, Mole, Lehmann, Copeland, Ruiz, Sankey, Greaves, Davies, Doyle, Stafford. Substitute: Perry.

A dashed close-run thing. And even if the smokers edged it over 90 minutes, you’d have to bet on the non-smokers’ additional reserves of fitness should the referee (a non-smoking Dave Rose or Roger Barnes) take the game into extra time. And then back into the tunnel.

Glastonbury: the Casuals' spiritual home?

After an arduous season in the Casuals' midfield, I like nothing better than to head down to Somerset for a bit of rest and recuperation. As many of you know, my quest for spiritual enlightenment is never-ending.

My last visit to Glastonbury coincided with the sort of torrential downpour which, if you're playing Witan away, has absolutely no effect on the fixture but which, if you're playing anywhere else, results in immediate cancellation.

Judge for yourself whether you could control a ball, swivel on a sixpence, then direct a pinpoint volley goalwards in such conditions (I recommend clicking on the photo for full panoramic effect).

I found God - and then I found veterans football

I worship the Lord Jesus with all my heart and all my soul. In him, through him, and by him, we are all redeemed in the oneness of his unyielding majesty. Only now do I understand that Jesus came down to earth to sanctify our sins and to redeem us from evil.

Fellow Casuals, I took the opportunity afforded by the cancellation of yesterday's game against Teddington to welcome Jesus into my heart by paying a visit to my local church. I had been a sinner - mired in concupiscence, consorting with painted jades, confusing my teammates by looking in the wrong direction when taking throw-ins.

But I have vowed to sin no longer. Henceforth I will bask in the refulgence of the Lord Jesus’s glory every Sunday from 10.30 in the morning...

Let the above ramblings be a lesson to you to be on your guard the next time a game is cancelled on Sunday morning. Too many cancellations, and you're liable to end up talking and thinking like one of those characters in A Pilgrim's Progress (example: "This miry slough is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond." Could John Bunyon be talking about the Dekker sports ground after a heavy downpour?)

That's because people with little to divert them before lunchtime on Sunday end up doing strange, unpredictable things like visiting the municipal dump or going shopping for Christmas presents or, most perplexing of all, going to church. The devil, my friends, finds work for idle veterans.

And once you’re in church, and the thurible gets swinging, and the incense starts to billow, and the candles flicker, and the bells start to jingle-jangle, and the priest intones, and the footsteps echo through the canyons of your mind… Before you know it you’re overcome and you’re beginning to think that maybe spending a winter’s Sunday morning standing up and kneeling down and sitting down in a nice warm church is actually preferable to running about like the proverbial fly with a blue bottom in the cold rain while being abused by your fellow Casuals and hacked down by your opponents. Well, it isn’t.

Some of you may indeed be of a religious persuasion, so I won’t keep going on about it. But just remember this. At the hour of your death, as your entire life flashes through your mind, what would you prefer to look back on: a succession of Sunday mornings spent hobbling around to no obvious effect over a patch of grass while your partner seethes quietly at home, or a life inspired by the example of Jesus, a life led with dignity, fortitude and respect for your fellow human being? No contest, really.

Scott of the Antarctic never had to play left-back against Burlington

The very first time I played for Dinton Casuals some seven years ago, I was placed at left back. I’m not sure, but I think we were playing Burlington, and I was given the task of marking a bloke with red hair and a beard who, it later transpired, was the brother of someone playing for the Casuals.

It transpired because at one point during the game there arose a “heated exchange of views” between the two brothers. I immediately went into Kofi Annan mode and tried to moderate the situation by placing myself between the warring parties.

The inevitable upshot was that the bloke in the beard started threatening me. My noble gesture of mediation had drawn me into the murky cesspool of filial relationships. What was also significant was that no other player from either side attempted to intervene, either to placate the arguing brothers or to rescue me from what had fast become a rather dicey situation.

I mention this incident not to advertise my credentials as a relationship counsellor but to draw attention to what an unforgiving place the left- and right-back position can be.

I’ve always referred to left-back as the footballing equivalent of Siberia: a cold, unforgiving place from which many never emerge. The fact is, you have to use your weaker foot (assuming you’re right-footed); when you get the ball you’re exposed to the marauding depredations of the opposition forward-line; and when you haven’t got the ball you’re frequently chasing the opposing right-winger – often one of those super-sprightly middle-agers who, in an earlier incarnation, had been south of England 100 metres champion.

Looking back, there are only three positions that I’ve never played in for the Casuals: centre-forward, central defence and goalkeeper. In fact, some of you may recall my 45-minute cameo one Sunday last season as centre forward for a depleted opposing side, in the course of which I blasted Mark Poulton’s goal with a 30-yard scorcher that I know he and many others still talk about in hushed tones.

I also recall briefly playing keeper once during a Casuals summer kickabout over on the astroturf by Teddington Studios. I touched the ball only twice, on both occasions to pick it out of the net. That little episode has served me well since, however. Whenever there’s a goalkeeping vacancy, Paul Sankey always pipes in with a reminiscence about my torrid 10 minutes between the sticks. I confidently predict I will not be donning the grapefruit vest for the Casuals before I retire.

Brazil 1970, Argentina 1986, Dinton Casuals 2006

For no reason, I was thinking this afternoon about what constitutes a “great” goal. We all know one when we see one.

Maradona’s goal against England in the 1986 World Cup is, unfortunately, a great goal – or as Barry Davies put it at the time, “quite, quite magnificent”. Another masterpiece, also from the World Cup, is Brazil’s Carlos Alberto strike in against Italy in 1970.

What makes these goals great is that (a) they occur during games played at the highest level, and (b) they are, quite simply, created out of nothing.

With hindsight we look back at them and they make sense to us as one flowing, seamless movement. But when Maradona picked the ball up well into the English half on that Sunday afternoon 20 years ago (and presumably we all remember where we were when it happened), none of us had any inkling that 10 seconds later he would be celebrating a goal, with no other player on the pitch having touched the ball in the intervening period.

Think of two other great goals, both different in character but sharing with the first two that element of surprise: Van Basten’s famous goal against the Soviet Union in 1988 and Wayne Rooney’s strike against Newcastle last season.

Watching the former on YouTube, what’s significant is that John Motson notes the presence of the Dutch striker on the far side of the pitch a couple of seconds before his volley, but there’s no suggestion that he constitutes a goalscoring threat. The goal, when it comes, is the footballing equivalent of a rabbit plucked out of a hat. Exactly the same for Rooney’s punt.

What’s also interesting about the last two examples is that they’re volleys. Volleyed strikes are so impressive because when the ball is in the air it is - in every sense - at its most volatile. It requires great skill on a player’s part to master the ball and direct it goalwards.

Significantly, Dinton Casuals scored two goals today. One was a lethal drive by Andy Doyle. The other was a volley. It was also a goal that, by any yardstick, bears comparison with Rooney’s wonder-strike and Van Basten’s acutely angled masterblaster.

Unfortunately the cameras weren't there to record the event. But those of us who witnessed it will surely carry the flame of its memory in our hearts and in our souls until the day that we die.

Technorati Profile

We must destroy everything that Ian Wright stands for

I’ve just finished reading a book about the battle of Stalingrad, and it’s fair to say that Stalingrad in 1942 is one of the places in history I’d least like to have been.

Another place from the past that I wouldn’t much fancy is the bottom of a well (say, in the 13th century), having been deposited there by the village elders in my capacity as witch.

But of all the places in history I’d least like to have been, my numero uno unpleasant location would be the Arsenal dressing room circa 1991-1998. Why? Because Arsenal is where Ian Wright plied his footballing trade during that period, and by all accounts he callously subjected his teammates, week in, week out, to his own almost certainly execrable taste in music in the changing room before every game.

The fact is, it’s never much fun having what someone else deems to be “good music” forced upon you, particularly if the music in question is complete shite. If I ever go into Borders in Kingston, my attention is more often than not wrenched away from matters literary by the sounds of Katie Melua or Tori Amos, whose meaningless piped dirges have driven me out of the shop on more than one occasion (I’m not joking).

I mention all this because I remember a conservation with Juan a few years back, during a run of bad results for the Casuals, when we discussed the possibility of playing a dues-paying, head-down, no-nonsense headbanger of an anthem in the changing room before the game with a view to motivating the team.

The problem, as always, is that one man’s musical Angelina Jolie is the next man’s etc etc. Here, in apparent contradiction of all that I've just said, are my top eight changing room musical motivators –

• Sex Pistols: Anarchy in the UK
  
• Nirvana: Lithium
  
• Lou Reed: White Light, White Heat (live version)
  
• Nirvana: Smells Like Teen Spirit
  
• Stranglers: No More Heroes
  
• The Fall: Dr Buck’s Letter
  
• The Hives: Hate To Say I Told You So
  
• Elmer Bernstein: Frankie Machine
  

The lad Rooney has so much to learn - from me

There aren’t many similarities between Wayne Rooney and myself. I don’t have a partner called Colleen, for example. Nor do I bear more than a passing resemblance to Shrek. And I tend not to go for women who are two and a half times my age (I’m 51).

Where there is a resemblance, however, is on the football front. We both play passionate, committed football and we both have a top drawer that’s chock-full of some of the most outrageous footballing skills you’ll see this side of the Copacabana.

This occurred to me as I replayed in my head my first-half performance at the weekend. Like Alan Hansen, I have an almost photographic recall of every incident from every match I’ve ever played in, and in Sunday’s half-game I thought I gave a particularly delightful exposition of the footballing arts.

Forget the simple, short pass from Adrian that I couldn’t control. Ignore my failure to mark the attacker who went on to sneak behind the defence and score the opposition’s second goal. Put out of your mind that ridiculous half-lunge with my chest as I bore in on goal – an incident which, if handled with greater agility, might have produced a first goal for the Casuals.

No. Cast your mind back to a small vignette some 25 minutes into the game. Juan took the ball and passed out to me on the left. The right-back, a player of considerable experience, was bearing down on me. In the flick of an eyelid I executed a Cruyff turn, shimmied past my opponent, advanced five yards and laid the ball on to an admiring Andy Doyle.

I could have sworn I heard an involuntary “Ole” from Paul Sankey on the touchline.

So next time Manchester United are in London for a weekend game, don’t be surprised if you see a young man with troll-like features down at the Hawker, applauding the Casuals from the touchline. Off the pitch we may not have much in common, but there’s still a lot that we veterans can teach the superstars of tomorrow.

Why the Casuals all need Edgar Davids goggles

Have you noticed how many times Dinton play on blindingly sunny Sunday mornings? It seems like every other game unfolds to the backdrop of a cloudless blue sky, as an occasional sailing boat scuds past on the Thames (that phrase © Paul Sankey). Yesterday was a case in point.

Like my fellow Casual Paul Stafford, I sometimes long for one of those games played in sheets of driving rain, with players falling about all over the place because they’ve misjudged the arrival of a ball that’s invariably lodged itself in a quagmire near the centre spot. The sort of game where you dread being taken off because you know you’ll freeze to death on the touchline.

I remember one home game in the depths of winter four or five seasons ago (God knows how we made it onto the pitch – it was during that period when the groundsman would call the game off if there was too much dew on the grass). Bitter cold over the preceding few days had turned the ground rock solid, with a coating of ice on top.

Add to that a heavy Sunday morning downpour about an hour before the game, and you had all the ingredients for an extremely distressing 90 minutes in conditions that wouldn’t get past the Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg. Sheer bliss!

But my point about the sunny weather, apart from the fact that it’s just plain weird at this time of year, is that when you’re out on the wing it often means you hardly get a look-in. If your colleague with the ball is staring into the sun, it’s virtually impossible for him to distinguish between one silhouette and another.

One solution would be to get the Hawker Centre to reposition the pitches so that teams play directly into the sun. Another option would be the construction of an Old Trafford-style three-tier stand to obscure the sunlight. A third, and more viable alternative would be to get all those Casuals playing on the non-sunny side of the pitch to wear Edgar Davids-style goggles for half the game.

Responsibility for looking after the goggles would, of course, fall to the person charged with looking after the water bottles…

Don't try to buy football boots in Kingston

I was in Kingston yesterday evening. I wasn't expecting it, but it was the night they turn on the Christmas lights, and so the area was full of the sort of mad, bug-eyed people for whom the festive season is a time to be merry and express your love for your fellow man. It made me come over all queasy, and I sought refuge in Topman.

I wouldn't normally go into Topman - not because I'm not a "top man" (in fact, I most certainly am) but because it caters for children. I happened to be with my son, who is a quarter of my age and who wanted to buy a pair of "skinny" jeans as part of his ongoing project to look like Joey Ramone circa 1977.

Anyway, all this rampant consumerism made me think of how hard it is to buy a half-decent pair of football boots in Kingston. Go into Starbucks and you can drink coffee in at least 23 different ways, but is there anywhere within five miles of the Bentall's Centre that sells Puma Kings?

When I moved to Kingston 10 years ago there was a little sports shop called Simister, located just opposite what is now the Rotunda but which then was a bus garage. Although Simister's stocking policy was a little eccentric, it was a real sports shop. You could buy things like cricket balls and dubbin and strange contraptions that helped you live with your hernia, as opposed to offering a choice of 250 different styles of trainer. And I think they sold Patrick football boots.

Even John Lewis has gone over to the dark side. All right, it might sell you a pair of neon blue fibreglass David Beckham-style slip-on bootees for £150, but don't ask for a classic pair of Adidas "Kaiser" boots because you'll be disappointed.

Didn't the economist Milton Friedman, who died yesterday, say something along the lines of "let the market decide"? Well, I can tell you, Mr Nobel prize-winning monetarist, the market's not working down this neck of the wood. I guarantee that if Soccer Scene was to open a branch in Kingston, it would do a roaring trade.

And one other thing. Last night Radio Jackie, who had a stall outside the Bentall's Centre, were playing John Lennon's Happy Christmas (War Is Over) at full blast. Won't somebody tell them there's a war on?

Let's get a few things straight about that 9-0 win

Like so many other people all over the world, I was heartened by the Casuals' 9-0 victory a fortnight ago. Some people say that I'm the sort of person who, if I'm not playing in the team, actually wants the Casuals to lose because if they do, it somehow proves that the team plays better when I'm around.

Nothing could be further from the truth. To say that my spirits sank when Sankey e-mailed me the gloating news of his hat-trick and the other six goals would be a slur against me and all that I stand for. To suggest that it put me in a foul temper for the rest of the day and that I sat around by the phone, hoping for news that at least someone had got injured during the game, would be a libel of monstrous proportions.

No. I was pleased for my fellow Casuals. Very pleased. It's just that I wonder how many more goals could have been scored had I been present on the Hawker Centre's lush turf two weeks back. Just think: with my proven net-finding talent, combined with the rich vein of form that I'm currently enjoying, the Casuals might even have pushed their score into double figures.