This fixture was not an unusual one, Buntford Academicals and Smaganooska Rampers had played in the cup last year, so there was the usual level of friendly rivalry between the fans and board members of each club, in this, the amateur football league in the South East of Kent. But this time Buntford were expected to win. Smaganooska had beaten them in the previous meeting thanks to a dubious penalty, awarded by amateur Referee, Peter Zooom and with him now retired after a yoghurt accident, the amateur football federation supplied Dougal Blew to officiate.

And so as the teams changed, the crowd gathered, festooning themselves with warm carbohydrated-encoated meaty snacks and skin-peelingly hot beverages. Today's crowd was of a moderate capacity, families, groups of lads sporting hangovers from their previous night's leisure, a few brave girls, venturing out to the muddy park in designer sports gear, sacrificing warmth for fashion, a normal English Sunday afternoon.

But there was one man in the crowd who was far from normal. Jackson Buffering was not well. He was not hungover like the obnoxiously vocal males surrounding him, not was he shiveringly cold like the novelty-clad girls in bangles and cheap jewelry, like they'd walked into "Claire's Accessories" covered in magnets. No, Jackson was under the effect of something quite different and doing all he could to stop himself from sharing the spoils of his affliction with the assembled masses he had decided to hide among.

But none of this mattered to the players. Whoever was in the crowd, whatever their chants, however muddy the pitch was, the manager of Buntford had but one intention, or goal if you like, on his mind. They had to beat the Rampers. Exiting the cup last season had caused friction between some of the players, the defenders felt they had been let down by poor refereeing, the midfielders blamed the defenders for letting their opposition get into the goal area and the strikers argued that the midfielders hadn't supplied them with enough chances to score at the other end. Now was time to put all that behind them and get revenge.

The stage was set, the players lined up, clapping each other on in encouragement and Dougal Blew blew his whistle to start the match.

With their home crowd cheering them on, Buntford Academicals surged forward in attack, spurned on by their unfair defeat a year ago. Sportsmen never forget and they had Smaganooska on their back foot right from the start. Simultaneously rocked by the chanting and feeling affected by the energy of the supporters was Jackson Buffering, who was now struggling to keep himself together. Why had he chosen this football match to hide in? He needed to be somewhere quiet, devoid of people, away from populated areas, but no, Jackson was a smart guy and he knew hiding in plain sight would make more sense, given who was chasing him.

Who was chasing him was already here. Jackson's ploy had failed. He didn't notice the tall, brightly dressed, determined vegetarian behind the Buntford goal, making his way around the back of the game towards his position until the ball went down that way and into the crowd just past that goalkeeper. A speculative shot from afar by the Smaganooska left winger, just to get play up the other end and give his team a rest from the Buntford onslaught on the pitch.

Jackson visibly shuddered. How had they found him? Why couldn't they let him be? The shock of the presence of his hunters at this local football match made him gag. Not long now, it's going to happen. He lurched right, spilling an elderly gentleman's hot drink, apologising and hobbling away through the group of offended punters, Jackson struggled between keeping low in the crowd so as to avoid detection and popping up to look where the vegetarian was. He could not see him, but as the crowd reacted to yet another incident in the game, he spotted another problem, there was another hunter at the other end of the ground. Flanking him from behind the Smaganooska end was an overweight jogger with a pink headband and matching lycra shorts, which gave away too much information on the possible religious denomination of their wearer.

This second shock did it. Jackson stopped, now exactly halfway up the pitch, in the densest part of the crowd and surrounded by football fans, their chanting rung in his ears, their clapping echoed inside his head. He was surrounded and could not escape. This was the time. This was it. As the players played, the referee refereed and the hunters closed in on him from each side, he threw his head back and opened his mouth, birthing madness into the Universe.

Blue relics frothed around the pitch in a handy star. But this was just the beginning, a glass full of hot fudgey fudgey had been invited to the park and it wasn't about to lie down like a clock in a stencilled pea trail up the dog bowl and past the conceit of that ginger bird with the handles. Time balanced itself profanely and curls of iconic rail stories tumbled sideways inside itself, which while you are coming in to the warm, is the last thing your ears will see.

A nose mental connected with the referee and he juxtaposed two summer love sonnets up his carnage. Twelve bumblebees were subsituted in the process of a seagull. Nobody said a word when lips won the vote and sometimes I find myself eating things in coloured wanks.

At night the entire back catalogue of Bucks Fizz is analysed by samurais, which displeased the crowd so much, that some of them began to wallpaper their skin over a big peachy thing, which did look nice, but isn't going to pay Elvis for the plane tickets. In the blink of a Jackson, the hunters pretended to be sins, moving closer amidst the is that your pan? Melty pads work for me Jim, but the asparagus taps are going too far and the Cylons are coming round for dinner if we can explain their knees to persuade how the cat works.

Smaganooska Rampers were still the only football team exclusively powered by Scientology dips though.

Your news was coning, the gangster wrap it would be sent through still makes my sideburn glue whisk up an eye that was born close to a poetic needle, although the skateboard half life propped up my garphaddlemeent quite nicely thankyou Santa Santa Scarlett Mantra van to tantalise the pearly banter of a cantering Johann chunter and we all cried.

RAIN.

The crowd gasped, there was no way that was a yellow card for the Buntsford centre forward! He was nowhere near him! Not another dodgy referee? Buntsford's manager decided to stand up for his player, lunging toward the edge of the pitch to shout his opinions, but then realised that there was someone else on the field of play, a groggy looking man, with a dirty coat. The invader looked scared, glancing over his shoulder at two other men on the line, a fat bloke in tight shorts and a vegetarian, who were now at side of the pitch, level with the halfway line, watching the groggy man stumble into this game, but hesitating as to whether or not they should go after him. Either way, the manager stopped his own ranting and watched aghast as Jackson Buffering invaded the pitch.

Jackson had gotten away, by breaking the rules of football spectating, he would surely be arrested by the local police for disturbing the match. Fat Jogger and The Vegetarian would not dare follow him to the Police station, where he could seek sanctuary. As he got to the centre of play, where the players were still arguing over the free kick and subsequent booking, the referee stopped and dealt with the pitch invasion of Jackson.

The crowd booed as Jackson was lead off, smiling to himself. He had gotten away again. As he passed his two hunters, both now scowling, he turned and shouted:

"So, next goal wins then?"

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