After being uncivilly serviced last week at the hands of Sunak and co, Parms 4s looked to get back to winning ways in the Old Boys cup quarter finals against Bealonians. Unlike last week, this is a cup we’re supposed to be in and presents a real chance at winning silverware. To keep our hopes alive, we’d have to get through a side who from Instagram clips alone look very handy. Their league form suggests we should be expecting goals at both ends, with them being involved in 57 in their 8 league games so far.

One thing trying to stop that trend continuing was The Wall. I’m not talking about John Cena trying to evade a sniper in Iraq (why did he not just say ‘You can’t see me’ and run out of the battlefield shaking his hand over his face?) - but Parms 4s’ back four. At left back, with a Central American classic shirt collection rivalling Carlos Valderrama and more wingers in his pocket than a 7-year old at Match Attax club, was Jack. In central defence, Tom and Jake, the latter of whom was caught in a real Sophie’s choice of not wanting to play so well at centre back he becomes undroppable, dashing any hopes of transforming into a marauding centre midfielder, and not wanting to let the side down through scoring some suspect own goals. At right back was new recruit Will, who was once again playing not only to get into the semi-finals, but to keep his job, as vice-captain and boss Joe watched on carefully from the sidelines. A back four so solid that, if he’s watching on, I’m sure Lorenzo would crack a brief smile in a dimly lit bar in Milan as he sips on a Franciacorta (for the antioxidants) and drifts into a daydream about the golden era of Maldini and Baresi.

As the game started it was as if all of the clearly existent skill of both sets of players had been left at home. Parms forgot how to pass to their own teammates, Bealonians forgot what they’re supposed to do once they win the ball back. A solitary tear ran down the black spine of the Veo camera as it realised it had to watch this game without blinking for another 90 minutes at least. The way this was going, it would take an infinite penalty shoot-out being stopped only by the fixture organised for next week needing to kick-off before the camera could feel sweet release.

Halfway through the first half and Parms finally hit the back of the net. Christian’s moulds managed to dig into the wet turf just long enough for him to get a shot off, which deflected and looped into my path. However, as I volleyed home and wheeled away Shearer-style, my relief quickly turned to bemusement as the referee blew for offside. At this point I haven’t watched the Veo back, but I am willing to stake everything I own on the fact that I was actually offside, and my constant moaning for the rest of the game and weekend was completely unfounded.

Towards the back end of the half Parms began dropping like flies. First I was cleared out by the keeper and took a cut so deep the pain took away my astonishment that the referee had dared to call me offside again. Moments later Jack Sceriado had to come off with dizziness, his brain clearly refusing to believe the dross it was processing was a genuine attempt at a game of football.

A few dodgy offside calls and a few let offs later and Parms went into the break at 0-0. Surely the second half would be an improvement.

It was not.

By about 230pm we would’ve been better just calling the game off. Replay it another day when both squads had remembered what we were actually there to do. You’d have been forgiven for thinking that the semi final of the Old Boys 4th XI cup at home to Ignation’s 4s was not the fixture that we’d all dreamed of as kids as we kicked a foam ball across the living room floor.

We really needed a moment of quality, and just as Joe was about to log into Workday and describe his employee as ‘uninspiring, void of desire and unable to rock a shaved head as well as my dad’, Will provided it. Picking the ball up in his own half, he played a delightful pass across the floor, setting myself free on the wing (miraculously my deep cut had healed into a minor scratch). I found Dylan in the centre, who took the ball down beautifully before slotting it past the keeper to make it 1-0. Game over. Call it now. There is no way we will be able to recreate anything near that level of coordinated attack if we play for another 3 weeks, and with Pink Floyd’s 11th album at the back, there’s no way Bealonians will equalise.

With 10 minutes to go, Bealonians had a corner. Not to worry – they’re about 6 foot tall combined and go to the Flat Stanley school of weightlifting, they’ll never win a header against John Lanchester’s Booker Prize longlisted novel of 2019. That’s what I was thinking anyway, as I drifted off the far post that I had been patrolling so diligently. Much like when I said Mo Salah would be a flop for Liverpool – I was wrong. Somehow Bealonians won the header and it arrowed towards the now lonely and isolated corner. In that instant my mind went into survival mode. Anything for the chance to host Ignation’s 4s in the famous fixture on the hallowed turf. I began to lean towards the corner with my chest, but immediately realised I simply did not have shoulders broad enough to get anywhere near the ball. I knew I only had one choice. I watched the 2010 world cup. I know what happens when you’re fundamentally a nice guy like Luis Suarez. You cheat by handballing it, and the universe repays your incredible dedication by making Bealonian’s equivalent to Asamoah Gyan sky it over the bar. I was instantly worried when our story deviated from that one, as the referee pointed to the spot but did not red card me. As Gyan hit the top corner to make it 1-1, I questioned everything I thought I knew about life, love and justice. Game on.

Parms dominated the ball but couldn’t finish off the game, Dylan and James both missing good chances to win it. It looked destined for another 30. We simply didn’t have the quality on the day able to open up the Bealonian’s defence again. But we did have The Bulldog. We had the man who grew up watching Jose Mourinho lead his boyhood team to European glory, instilling within him a level of grit, determination and never-say-die attitude that makes him an absolute nightmare for tired legs. We had Bruno.

A hopeful punt up field was flicked on well by James. Bruno pounced, and as he so often does, outwilled the defender to break through. As soon as he put his sights on the trembling knees of the goalkeeper it was game over, slotting calmly into the corner to make it 2-1. GET INNNNN. FORCA PORTO, FORÇA BRUNO. We probably didn’t deserve it, but we’d done enough.

Parms held strong for the final two minutes and progressed to the semi-final. We know we have to be better – but with 11 wins out of 12 this season and quiet murmurs of a potential treble growing ever louder, we must be doing something right.