Picture if you will, 745AM on a bright Sunday morning. Tim coughs, before spitting into a half empty whisky glass. A low grunt as he rolls and the material of the sofa sticks to his sweating body. The night terrors still haunt him, the smell of stale lambert and butler seep into everything around. Head pounding, he sits up. He doesn’t remember burning a hole in the sofa last night. He doesn’t remember a lot since the penalty miss at Ropley all those years ago. He stands, stretches and catches a sight of himself in the mirror. The slightly yellowing vest and pants disgusted him but he’d make them pay for making him like this. Today was the day he got his reputation back.

Roll forward to 1030 and after a rousing team talk the Fleet Academicals kicked off in the hazy morning sunshine, pitch like a carpet, another trigger for Tim as he reflected. He’d had nice carpets at home until that missed penalty. The disgrace had led him to lose himself along the way. 10 minutes of pretty decent football saw the ageing side take a one nil lead, Tommy Timekeeping chipping one in for Stu, who we should credit for not getting into a fight. His Scottish blood itched for trouble like Tims studs craved cartliage and bone.

Like a tropical wound the Tim’s festering continued, Sociadads going 2 nil with some nice play, Jason staying onside for a tap in from Tims cross. You could see the conflict in Tims eyes, darting across and staring at the keeper as Jason tucked it home. Time doesn’t heal, it only makes the anger more bitter, more aggressive. He fought hard to keep the animal at bay but it scratched at his throat pushing him to stop the facade and revert to the footballer inside.

We started the second half in a comfortable position but the referee decided to let a few tackles go and suddenly the middle of the park became a battlefield. Their no. 8 flying into tackles like an Al Qaeda veteran. Eventually after the third installment of heavy lunges he cut through Harry, resulting in a free-kick. Asa, testosterone peaking as he hadn’t sired a child for over 40 minutes, let his anger overcome him and managed to get himself booked for some flirty chat with their pitchside team.

Tom, feeding off the testosterone that clouded the area around the center-backs decided he’d had enough and body checked their 3 stone striker who went down faster than Michael Barrymore at Guildford Lido, with a similar result. A stewards enquiry and confirmation that the victim had lost their arsehole and penalty awarded. 2-1

Pete Marsh soon restored the cushion, after a shank from the Sociadads serial killer, Timmy Ankers. 3-1

Back in the Sociadads area, the smell of men and volatility hadn’t eased, Andy lost all control and grabbed their striker, manhandling him, taking his phone number and whispering the things he would do to him given half a chance. Penalty number 2. Tim’s anger had peaked. Even John John watching from the touchline went quiet, something had snapped in the air.

A loose pass to their keeper and Tim launched himself, like a riled up boar he snorted before smashing into the keeper at knee height. The referee immediately went for the card but seeing Tim glare at him and show him pictures of his family tied up in his mobile home he downgraded to a yellow. The keeper tried to stand but Tim ground his studs into his ankles warning him the last keeper that tried anything hadn’t been able to catch the ball again, his hands still hanging on his wall where Tim had stuffed them.

Eventually it all calmed down and the Acca’s walked away with a 3-2 victory. Tim returned home, and smiled as he kicked the puppy sat near his front door. Stepping over the empty Hoffmeister cans he sat heavily on the sofa. He peeled the keepers skin from the studs of his boots, and used it to patch up the hole before sparking up an Embassy Red. His anger abated, the smell of rapeseed oil tickled his nose as he felt the familiar stirring. The beast was tamed. For now.