Well, that's just about torn it. The crotch in my trouser has all but perished. To think I handed my £14.99 over the counter of H&M all those years ago in good faith for these cheap imitation combat pants. At a rough estimate I'd say I've got four weeks wear left in them before my old chum, trouser mouse, is exposed to the world.
But still the rumours persist among the tittle tattle of the Burridge locker room.
'Is he pocketing all the money he collects from us for himself?'
If the state of my crotch hasn't already made it clear, allow me this opportunity to inform you that some people are still out there doing things out of the goodness of their own hearts, without the promise of any financial or sexual reward. Although don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those stuffy types who's going to get all high and mighty about it if someone wants to blow me.
Just because I'm busy providing loyal service to Burridge, the club I've represented for 12 years by collecting £3 from every player for Wednesday's training session at Wildern school, £5 from everyone who plays on a Saturday afternoon, and £8 from anybody who receives a yellow card, in order to pay the club's bills, doesn't mean I'm too big for my boots about receiving a blow job from errant strangers outside public toilets, okay?
It's regrettable that we've had to wait until the crotch of my trouser has been worn down to the thickness of a Rizla paper before making this public knowledge, but there you go.
Just glad we've had the chance to clear this up.