It was groundhog day in a leafy corner of south-west London as the Tiffs once again found themselves toe to toe with the old foe, Glynn. Only this time the Ts were in purple. They looked far more comfortable in their own skin prancing up and down the touchline, hips dancing, breasts jiggling, as they went through the familiar pre-match routine. The opposition didn’t quite know what to make of it. Was it a look of trepidation in their eyes? Fear? Or just mild curiosity? No one could really be sure.

A cursory glance at the form guide would have told them they had absolutely nothing to worry about. With the in-form Youl and out of shape Wightwick both unavailable, Weasley was forced to shuffle the pack. Unfortunately he didn’t have any aces at his disposal. Nor did he have any tricks. What he did have, however, was an array of fat men, a house elf and a man who used to be fat.

What then ensued was described by the veteran Dave Harry as “the worst contest [he] had ever been involved in.” Dave fought at Verdun.

Men wobbled from side to side. Some of them spent considerable periods lying on the cold, bare earth. Necks were craned. Everything seemed to take an interminably long time. Orders were barked sporadically, none were followed. Effort and energy were expended, but to no effect.

The man in black presiding over events brought proceedings to a close early, as a sign of respect. He couldn’t take any more of it. Sitting in the bar after his cold shower he was found muttering to himself “that was not football.” It wasn’t.