"Hello, Gary here. Well, Alan, another one in our classic 'Match of the Eighties' series. This one's a real stormer."
" It certainly is, Gary, this one will be played for years to come. Expect to see four across the front, with Vic holding it all together and calling the shots."
"Thanks, Alan, let's go over to the hallowed ground and see the action start."
So there I was, stood outside, squinting from the bright sunlight. I thought it's a nice day for it anyway. This time it's not just a game, it's for real. I'm not a spectator; I'm part of the twin strike force. And we're both expected to score.
I'm there with my mate. We've turned up too early cos he didn't want us to be late, and you can't trust the taxis. Only one of the partnership has the chauffeur-driven limo, and it's not me.
Just time for a couple of photos before we go in. Not many cos the photographer went to the wrong place, first off. Got the names mixed up, he said. It's not like my pictures are in the paper every week, I thought. I didn't say anything though. Too much on my mind.
One or two of the crowd had turned up; they give me a few words of encouragement, and take more photos. Not for the papers this time, just the family album. Maybe they'll show their mates.
Then it's inside, with my minder, Dave. He's the best. He's the man. Time for last-minute preparations. There's not much for me to do, except pace up and down and try not to worry too much. We're paying a whole bunch of people to sort everything out for us. All we do is turn up, do the business, and then it's out with the mates for a good night.
I'm nervous. This is the big one. My throat is dry, I ask Dave, and he fetches me a glass of water. I wish I were somewhere else. I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Just last-minute butterflies in the stomach, but they feel more like bats. Baseball bats.
Only minutes to go, I'm going over the plan again. Timing is everything. A lot of people will be watching me; I want to get it right. I wipe my sweaty palms and glance from behind the curtain to look at the assembled throng. I look back at Dave. He nods; it's time to go.
I take that long walk to the middle, watched by a packed house. Silence, almost a reverence, but I know it's not for me. They stay in their seats; a few glance in my direction. All my family are there, they don't want to miss this one.
Suddenly the familiar music strikes up; everyone gets politely to their feet. I bow my head and put my hands behind my back. Then the music stops. Me and my partner are back together again, up front. We've known each other for years. Best friends on and off the park. Now we've got to get it together. It's the big time. We'll be tested to the limit and beyond.
It all goes so quickly. All the moves have been well rehearsed. Practised, over and over, so no one makes a mistake. I don't want to let the side down.
It goes like a dream. The two of us down the middle, side by side. All over in minutes. We've done it. The conquering heroes. Treated like royalty, if only for a day. Now we both get in the limo. Home to get changed, then it's off for the after-match celebrations.
The whole squad are there. More photos. This time it's less formal. Time to let our hair down, have a few drinks, eat the food, and boogie on down.
In the meantime we're showered with gifts, cards of congratulation, and we don't pay for a drink all night. I don't know who invited this lot. I've not seen half of them before.
"Speech, speech" they all shout. Now, I'm not too good at this sort of thing. In front of a few, I don't mind - but not this lot!
Here goes nothing! Doesn't go too badly, though I say so myself. I even get the odd laugh. I get a sloppy kiss on the lips from old aunty Gert. She's the one with rotten teeth and halitosis. Now she wants a dance. I'm cornered. Years ago I'd have run away from her, but I guess it's one of the responsibilities of being an adult. I know I'm no John Travolta - no thoughts of a white suit, just a white flag. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide...
I’m trying to avoid Uncle Eddie. He's the religious freak - every family has one. Never misses a chance to convert the unwary. He ought to be playing rugby - more tries than conversions. Yet again, I'm cornered. I nervously glance at my watch. The time's eleven o'clock. Saved by the bell.
"Last Orders" comes the cry from the bar. Surely not, landlord. The bloke who booked this place paid for an extension, and all my mates are coming in after working the late shift.
"Too late!" comes the cry. The bar's closed. The bloke that booked it has got a dodgy ticker, so he can't get involved. He'll have to wait 'til later to get his money back.
One by one, the guests drift away. We stick it out to the bitter end, which is not long after last orders. No limo now. Just a lift home for the two of us, with what's left of our wedding cake.
"The rest of your life starts here" they said. Now it's the game of life.
But not all games are won, some are hard-fought draws, and some are humiliating defeats. After appeals to the Authorities, this particular match was declared void.
More Accrington Stanley than Arsenal.
No jackpot here.