Cheer up Alan Shearer. The Professional Geordie Whinger may be feeling even more morose than normal come Monday morning, but at least he didn't have to limp around a North London football pitch for six hours on Sunday.
The Guardian's annual 5-a-side competition was competed up at Old Street this year under brilliant Bank Holiday sunshine. And whaddya know - my team was also rather brilliant as well.
Past form has taught me that you turn up for these competitions with a number of late pull outs; your team of vagabonds kick off full of enthusiasm, only to find that your tournament has finished with the Sunday carvery still yet to be served.
But Team Mod (of which I can lay a distant degree of professional association) competed rather well. P3 W3 is a track record that the Professional Geordie Whinger can only dream of. Our team of *shhh* ringers and rough diamonds somehow found ourselves in the quarterfinals after the morning qualification competition was complete.
A horrific injury to a midfield maestro dampened our spirit, but his support for the team in staying up at Old Street for the afternoon, even though an ambulance was called for, certainly helped to carry us forward. Fine work, fella.
Our team tactics seemed to be centred on frustrating the pants off the opposition. Don't be fooled by the Love Me I'm a Liberal agenda - Guardianista work culture is actually rather competitive, and slightly sporty. All except Team Mod, one of whom had arrived in EC1 after an early hours DJ session.
'But you don't look like footballers,' as one (defeated) opponent accused of us after we progressed to the semis at the expense of his team of corporate Sport Billy's. Don't be put off by appearances - power is all contained within the finger pointing.
Ah, yes - a proven team tactic was to eye up the opposition before kick off, and point randomly at various players. It fooled not only us, but also our opponents, all the way through until the semis. A 5-1 defeat at the hands of The Observer Picture Desk was an image just waiting for a witty picture caption.
I officially retired after almost twenty years of park football just over a year ago. My knackered knee could take no more, and swimming and cycling were winning the day. But a rare, one off run out with the Graun folk just about passed my pain threshold. The Professional Geordie Whinger may be hurting inside, but that's nothing compared to the need for a stair lift before I hit the age of forty.