Training: Ben Rowe forgets

(pictured above) Ben Rowe (in blue and black stripes) rushes to scene. Intimidatingly tall trees are of no consequence when a tabby cat needs rescuing.

Ben Rowe woke up in his clothes. It was dark. For a second he didn't know where he was. The chest of drawers gave it away. It was his bedroom. It was Wednesday after work. He was lying on his bed. When he arrived at Wildern Leisure Centre for training he told Burridge manager Pete Lyons, that he didn't feel well. “You look pale,” said Pete. He looked like shit. “Come to sweat it out have you?” Ben didn't answer. His face was mostly hidden under a woolly hat and a hood. What was on show was unshaven. He apologised for forgetting his three quid training money. He said he forgot last week too. He was honest and forgetful. It's a dangerous combination. In the game of six-a-side at the end of training he shouted for the ball. Jonesy rolled it to him. Somebody nicked off his foot. Ben threw his hands in the air. Why didn't anyone tell him he had a man up his arse? He thought it would be good to get back to bed. He wouldn't forget where he was this time. Least he hoped he wouldn't.

This Saturday Burridge go to Green Park, Millbrook, to play Bush Hill in the cup. Kick off is at 1:45pm.

-

Terminal trouser

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.