Turns out the footie wasn't so bad. The day before I scoured London for a pair of ridiculous clowns' feet boots (I'm a size UK13, not easy to find), and they were absurdly cheap. My first football boots since I was at school 16 years ago, and they were less than the price of a round.
As for the game, I wasn't terrific seeing as I never learnt to play as a kid and this was only my second proper game ever (both in the last few months), but I did try my best. Sadly, with a minute remaining, their winger shimmied past me with the ball - I couldn't keep up - and could only watch as he raced off with it, collided with our goalkeeper, and put him in hospital.
For some reason, our goalie Jimmy wanted me to accompany him to Northampton General (mainly because I asked), so we spent our Saturday night with other injured people and some particularly angry-looking Poles.
I would've resented spending my weekend in a sterile waiting room as opposed to lots of bars in a different town among a variety of women, but age and experience has taught me that all I'd do is spend lots of cash getting very drunk and not doing a great deal else. At least this way I saved some money and avoided the inevitable disappointment of being told to fuck off by a chain-smoking blonde in a leotard.
Oh, and we lost 7-3.