A Friendly Game of Football

It's good to be me. Even my name rocks like a motherfucker. Go on, whisper it slowly whilst looking at yourself in the mirror. It's practically an explicit invitation for hot, sweaty, taboo breaking, transgressing all notions of moral decency Rumpy Pumpy.

'Twasn't ever thus, I must confess. Back when I was younger, like all children, I wished I was just like everyone else. I wished my name was Steve or Gary or John. I wished my hair didn't draw comments about it looking like a 'microphone top' or a brillo pad. I wished that when I walked into my form room for registration that the BNP and NF logos on exercise books didn't bother me so much and that I too, somehow, could view the Swastika as mere playful badinage. I wished that when greeting the Postman with a cheery "Good morning" his response wasn't a terse "Fuck off, you Black bastard!".

But I'm lucky. Very lucky. Because I can call on these experiences and it's all that stuff which makes me the neurotic, fragile, insecure and uniquely fascinating man I am today. I love being me. But more than that, I love showing off. And music.

At my Infants' school, apart from spending Story-time cross-legged on the carpet looking up Miss Hayler's skirt - tights and flowery knickers - my abiding memory is of coercing the other pupils to participate in my epic plays. I was always the lead, natch, and Ulysses was my favourite. I got my Mother to fashion a toga out of a curtain and away I went. Pretentious, moi? Mais, bien sur.

Later, as the world's best drummer (tm), I was recruited to a band attempting to ride the Manc/Oasis wave onto the idyllic beach of female adulation and riches aplenty. We signed to EMI for the lucrative record deal and Creation for our publishing. The experience of being in a band with a bunch of paranoid cretins is one I'll share at a later date. Maybe. But my experience within the industry itself was amazing. On tour in Portsmouth one evening I was asked to play for Liam Gallagher's celebrity football team.

A short couple of weeks later and I'm at the East London stadium arrogantly striding around in a blue stripey football kit, which, frankly, doesn't suit me in the slightest.

The final whistle blows and we've won a bad-tempered, dour and niggly game against Space (Female Of The Species) - after an earlier, shoddy six-nil defeat to James (Sit Down, She's a Star) - which, being honest, wasn't in the spirit of the tournament. At all. Mancs vs Scousers is always a tense affair as the pride of the M62 is at stake. I played the decisive role of the defensive midfield hitman to great effect and whilst our opponents banged their heads without reward against our brick wall of a defence, we nipped up the other end and scored. One-nil! Eat my totally-against-the-run-of-play-goal!!!!

It's Robbie Williams next in the Quarter Final.

The!

Quarter!

Final!

I mean, it's got the word 'Final' in it so that's pretty impressive, isn't it? Robbie's got Mark Owen and one of The Prodigy making special guest appearances in his team and they seem pretty handy, but nothing a couple of chest-high tackles won't sort out. We might have a chance of winning this tournament.

In the opposing half of the draw Blur have been steamrolling everything that gets in their way. This is mainly due to Phil Daniels and Iron Maiden's Steve Harris who are quite simply awesome in their midfield. Damon Albarn, on the other hand, plainly can't run and doesn't look as if he's ever seen a football before. Another celebrity attempting to swallow the rigid phallus of the zeitgeist. Plus his floppy hair is just annoying. Nah, they won't be a problem.

As I move to shake the Space captain's hand I'm distracted by a persistent, high-pitched screech which envelops the whole stadium. What the-? Is that the fire alarm? A bomb alert? I look around at everyone else on the pitch and they're all acting like everything is in order. They aren't scattering for the exits as I'm considering doing. Am I the only one who can hear this? Meanwhile, Space fella's now drawling some compliment or other, but my eyes are drawn to the stands which rise impressively over his shoulder - the edifice glinting in the early afternoon sun - as I attempt to decipher this unsettling cacophony: it's like an itch in my brain that I just can't scratch...

The performance 'high' and adrenaline rush imperceptibly subside and suddenly my brain click whirrs into action - the picture morphing into sharp focus. Whoah! That, my dearest, gorgeous, gentle reader, is the sound of thousands upon thousands of decidedly agitated and hormonally charged individuals greeting our victory and begging for autographs. Needless to say I remove my shirt, flex just a little and stride over to oblige my devoted public. I remember distinctly in that single moment as I grabbed the gold glitter permanent marker, aimed it at the proffered body part and asked "Who shall I make this out to, baby?", that I was thinking "Wow! I LOVE showing off. And I love music!"

The Quarter Final? We lost. Three-nil. I couldn't get anywhere near Mark Owen. Robbie nutmegged me, rounded the keeper and backheeled the ball into an empty net for the third. Everything after that was an incandescent haze of shame and humiliation. My muscles stiffened up so much before the end of the match that I shuffled around the pitch awkwardly as though clutching a newly minted 50 pence piece between my impossibly pert buttocks. James beat Robbie's team in the semi-final before drubbing the much-fancied Blur in the final seven-nil. But, hey, we made the Quarter Final! And whilst the odd visit to a counsellor has been an entirely necessary staple in subsequent years, I still LOVE showing off. And I LOVE music.