I wander lonely as a cloud, around Tesco.

I don't think I've ever stood back and admired the beauty of this oligarchy. The green baskets and colouring of the fruit shelves reminding you of someone else childhood spent scrumping apples from Mr Robinson's garden. That constant reminder of the beautiful fields and rolling dales that these intensively market-farmed vegetables have never seen. The brains behind the supermarket need applauding for the superfluous plastic tray under the corn on the cob and the fact that you can't just buy a handful of green beans - you either have to buy a tray with enough beans on to feed an army or buy one with the right amount of beans but then be saddled with some strange bed-fellow like an artichoke.

Then there are the eggs. Easter eggs - piled everywhere. Eggs on top of eggs, with more eggs on top of them. But obviously the only egg they don't have is the one I'm looking for. The Baileys egg seems to have proved popular with the 25-40 female demographic who like their alcohol to taste of anything but alcohol. I have to settle for a plain Easter Egg, a bottle of Baileys and three days to hatch a plan on how to deal with a very drunk Canadian Girlfriend.

It's easy to get lost in a massive Tesco store, I think to myself while admiring their cheap and cheerful loungewear. I suppose it's probably time I left, I should be getting to the football soon. At which point, I check my "watch" (when I say watch I mean clock on my mobile - really - who still wears watches?)

It's already five past. That means I have approximately minus five minutes to do a 15 minute drive, if I am going to get there on time. But I have a 30 minute contingency built into that timing schedule - which is just a posh way of saying that I have 25 minutes before kick off. I hurry to the checkout.

This Johnny-No-Stars on the checkout is taking forever. The items are hitting the belt at a ridiculously slow speed - the Local Council could have made a decision on a planning application during the time it's taken for the items to scan. I bag up, keeping to my three shopping bag rule. I leave the self checkout.

I jump in the car and now only have 15 minutes to do a 15 minute drive and to get changed. If only there was someway I could combine them both.....

I fling my tie to the passenger's seat and undo the top button of my shirt. I get on to the M60. I slowly begin undoing the remaining buttons of my shirt. I delve into my bag for my Under Armour. The logistics of this idea is starting to hit home. While Superman may be able to change in a phone box, he didn't have to deal with a Danzas lorry that doesn't know where it's going. The clutch, gas, brake, clutch scenario that typifies the M60 between the hours of 1am and midnight mean it is almost impossible to get changed whilst driving.

I hit an area that does not have much traffic. Harry the Yaris gets up to 86. It's foot down - Damn the fuel efficiency. I have about 5 minutes to get from the motorway junction to the pitch and get changed.

I pull up in the car and note that the games have not started. I throw off my shirt and fling on my kit, I am in such a rush that my knee brace which is meant to protect my injured knee turns into more of a shin pad. I jog along to the back gate which is sometimes open. It is closed and there is a queue to get over. Two guys spring over the fence with minimal effort and jump down in a manner that says that they have no reason not to trust their knees. The young kid in front of me struggles to get up to the top of the 7 foot gate. I walk forward, place my hands on his bottom and give him a shove up.

His father on the other side of the gate stares at me like I am a paedophile.

Seriously, have we got to the stage where a fellow human being can't help a slightly smaller fellow human being over a fence without having aspersions cast on his character? Has the Daily Mail turned us into such paranoid and untrusting people that we mistake the good Samaritan for a pervert who's only after one thing?

Admittedly I did have my other hand down the front of my tracksuit bottoms adjusting my testicles.

In the rush to get changed Lefty had slipped out.

I rush to the pitch, missing the first three minutes and until the next stoppage with my Under Armour on and my laces untied. I suit up properly while someone chases the ball across the car park.

We lose 22-2 - the low-light of which is them taking pot-shots at their own goal keeper.