By Jon Eldridge

First of all, apologies for the delay in writing the "match report". The first draft was so deliciously witty that the dog ate it. And then, my time been taken up researching an article on pornography for deaf-and-blind people. It turns out that one enterprising company is pioneering electrodes that shoot shameful images straight to the user's frontal cortex, tickle the hypothalamus, and positively send the cerebellum in to a tailspin.

I've had a devil of a time of a time trying to disconnect my complimentary press 'trode. It seems to have got stuck on.

I've also been struggling to find words to describe a match that I was barely able to see. Usually I would opt for a slovenly jaundiced view, but my eyes really were filled with yellow puss (suspected conjunctivitis) and visibility was limited to 10 yards. This debilitating condition, I assure you, has nothing to do with the first paragraph.

So let's play, What the Cretin Vice-Captain Saw?

• A very well-directed and confidently taken finish by George to open the scoring.
• Some tidy football in the first-half marred a bit by an inability to use the flanks and build attacks better.
• An ultra officious little referee, who felt compelled to blew up for every challenge involving in the even the most minimal of contact.
• A dubious second-half pen awarded against Pete for I-don't-know-what. (déjà vu)
• A certain second-half pen not awarded to British for an obvious handball inside the area. (déjà vu a deux)
• A spirited effort by United in spite of the referee's constant breaking up of the game.
• A valuable point in our struggle to stay in the division.

Incidentally, the biggest stress that I've discovered in taking over as captain is not so much organising the team. We had great support from multilingual and man-of-the-match Oli, who wore the captain's armband for the day, and the rotation (tinkerman) subbing policy is proving to be universally popular. No, the most enormous stress comes in finding the ground. What is it lads? I sent out the instructions - the only ones I had access to - you pump the address into your GPS, and yet it still feels like it's my fault when, having circled the king's summer residence twice, we arrive at a muddy field where the only sign of an opposition are a few grazing pygmy ponies. (Mine had a chestnut Christina Aguilera side-parting: didn't fancy yours.) Brussels isn't Bermuda - football grounds don't fall into the sea never to be seen again. Or do they? Things are getting weird around here, and Rog's GPS lady is definitely losing her marbles.

The day drew to an end with the chaotic display of ignorance that is the British United quiz. Third-team regulars Eldo's 'Eroes (Rog, Pete, Marc C and Jon) took home a new runners-up plaque (thanks Dave). Despite saying all the right things in the quiz (though not always writing them down), making all the early moves, and being on top for most of the night, EE came second….like true gentlemen. If it hadn't of been a no-smoking bar, we'd have lit up a post-quiz cigar and sighed. Instead, the bitter recriminations began in earnest.

Anything else that happened on 10 March is too insignificant to mention, or too important.

One or the other.

Or didn't actually happen.

Like this report.

You will now self-destruct.