I have played football about once in the last ten years, and even ten years ago I was rubbish at it, but for some reason I was asked to play in the comedians versus critics football match this afternoon. How could I refuse the chance to defeat the feckless journalists, or at least take a chunk out of their legs with my vicious bully-boy tactics?
I was in goal the first half, which might sound surprising given my stature, but the goals were not full size and I used to play goalie in the kick-about matches I had with my friends all those years ago and was quite handy and agile (I was also a decent-ish wicket keeper). Also no-one else wanted to go in goal.
The critics had a lanky forward from the Sunday Herald who turned out to be the best player on the pitch. He had three shots in the first twenty minutes and all of them went past me. I got my fingers to the first one and should probably have saved it, but the others I had no chance with. I hadnt expected to be brilliant but was disappointed to not have saved anything of any note. Luckily I made a good save to my left at the end of the half and proved I wasnt totally useless. The score at half time was 3-3 and to be honest the comedians had had the better of it and should have been ahead.
I was more annoyed at half-time when I discovered that the Sunday Herald man had given me a mediocre review (that I hadnt seen yet) last weekend. He had now heaped on the humiliation by getting a hatrick. Also the bloke from the Guardian was playing. Although the team seemed pleased enough with my endeavours (recognising that most of the goals were down to defensive errors, I handed over the gloves to another comic for the second half. Hed been barracking me all the way through the first half and fancied his chances. As it happened early on he made a stupid error and dropped the ball into the path of an attacker and the critics took the lead.
I was off for fifteen minutes, but then brought on as striker. I was fired up and realised that I would have to overcome my lack of skill by using intimidation and madness to confound the opposition. I ran on shouting, I know which of you have given me bad reviews and I am going to get you! and then ran for every ball like an over-excited dog, but less good at football.
I was acting like a beserk, the Viking warriors who would run madly into battle with no regard for their own safety, or more aptly a bit like Gazza in that FA Cup final where he got over-excited and ended up practically breaking his own leg in a reckless challenge. The grass was wet and slippy and I was wearing trainers and I was sliding all over the place. I was taking out my anger at my mediocre reviews and was a little out of control (even though I was trying to appear that I was out of control). I was making up for lack of skill with enthusiasm, at one point doing an optimistic kung fu kick at a brilliant cross in that was slightly out of my reach. I spectacularly failed to make contact.
Then as I was walking along I felt a sting of pain in the back of my leg, like a stone had just been kicked at me. I looked around and accused the lying journalists of dirty tactics (oh the delicious irony). I carried on playing and going in hard, but my leg really hurt and I was limping. After ten minutes I reluctantly acknowledged that, like Gazza, I would need to be substituted.
The comedians valiantly tried to find the equaliser, but we had lost our cohesion and also our beserk and eventually the critics scored another on the break, against the run of play and it was all over. The critics had got another one over on us
My leg was now really hurting quite badly and I realised that I must have pulled a muscle. Not only had I failed to harm my enemies, my crazy antics had only harmed myself. I found this quite amusing, but also annoying. How long would it take me to recover? Would this mean the end of the exercise regime that I have successfully been keeping up this festival? Would I be able to get home? Would I be able to do my show or would I have to become a sit-down comic?
In the end I managed to get to my gig, limping very badly and in some pain. But I felt a lot better for the madness and it had brushed all the cobwebs of self-indulgence away from me. I had sold out and with the help of Dr Theatre got through it all with barely a twinge. Though the second it was over the pain returned.
But it was a testament to my own bravery, commitment and stupidity and there is no better testament than that.
