The pursuit of perfection on the sports field has pre-occupied men and women for centuries. On this wet Bank Holiday Sunday your humble correspondent reclines in an armchair alternately soothed by the strains of Radio 3 and inspired by a week of true sporting greatness.

You could be forgiven for thinking that I refer to the FA Cup Final, England v West Indies at Lords, The Champions League Final, any number of high profile showpieces that have flickered across our screens of late. You would be wrong, they are not demonstrations of sporting greatness in my book, and I prefer a different definition.

My sporting week began last Saturday afternoon as I waived farewell to the missus. Glynis was heading off to Hyde Park to take part in the Moonwalk for breast cancer research, a midnight marathon walk through the streets of London. Now that’s what I call an excellent idea. At a stroke 20000 exit passes were issued to eager other halves and all in the name of maintenance of the nation’s breasts! Not only was this exit pass valid on Saturday night, it covered the whole of Sunday as well (Glynis didn’t arrive home until 10am and went straight to bed for eight hours).

I then settled into my pre match routine. A whole afternoon of wagers at the Jones residence including laying Rio Ferdinand to score in a dull cup final. A few ales in the evening, early to bed, early to rise, bacon sarnie, The Sunday Times all running like clockwork. Last minute checks were run, appropriate clothing for the weather? finances? Then came the brisk thirty minute walk to Lincoln Road the anticipation building with every stride…. ready to start drinking for the Pinks.

I arrived at the fag end of the Enfield innings, just in time for tea. Being a strict G14 Arsenal fan I opted for Prawn Sandwiches and Carling Extra Cold. An early threat to my knock came in the form of a Bonehead anti capitalist rant about the state of the BBC canteen. I neatly cut him away to the rather flash electronic scoring gizmo and proceeded to clock up two quick runs between the bar and the balcony where I was soon joined by Pits and his wind-milling off stump.

It wasn’t until gone five thirty that the Rosaneri score passed my pint count, the quest to reach their 218 target was already off target. Pits was followed quickly by Jim, Coxy, Nick and Cuz Shewring. As I moved on to my fourth beer I could only admire the speed and dexterity with which each victim managed to tie their pads on. I retired from the balcony and formed a promising partnership in the bar with an injured Dickie Baldwin, having both taken strike on the Carlings a couple of times apiece we turned to see the Rosaneri last wicket pairing trudge back to the club house.

From this point onwards the tempo rose significantly. Having been joined in the bar by defeated Pinks the banter began and despite some sledging and nearly passing out over Jims impression of a West Indian spectator at a long ago school match, I laboured through a seventh pint before wandering down the wicket to discuss tactics with Coxy and Pits. Following these discussions I played a cover drive for the Polashi and scored a direct hit. One bottle of Cobra was downed before I was finally clean bowled by a particularly violent chicken madras.

I have seldom enjoyed myself at a sports ground as much as I did last Sunday, the banter was superb even if the performance came up a little short on the day. The Rosaneri demonstrated true sporting excellence throughout. Mourinho may have six trophies in three years but where is his grace? Pippo Inzhagi scored both his teams goals in the Champions League Final but why did he have to claim he meant the first?

I refer you to Concise Oxford English Dictionary.

Sportsman n. (pl. sportsmen, fem. Sportswoman). Person fond of sports, esp. of hunting etc.; person who behaves fairly and generously; hence –like a., -ship n.

Under this definition we were all great sportsmen on Sunday, we took part.