Tournament time again, this time the 4th annual Leicester 7s tournament, hosted by everyone's favourite charity cases, the Emetic Yetis.

There was the usual tomfoolerous panic the night before (players and kit, etc) but that didn't take the gloss off the traditional pre-tournament victory sesh. As Saturday dawned, so did hope of another gong to round off a decorative season.

A brisk run up the M69 to Leicester and our assembled squad of sky blue gladiators consisted of myself, Tim, Joe, Banjo, Dave, Mick, Sam and Jed, leaving us with a one player surplus on our starting seven, ably supported by Anita and (in due course) Di and Michelle.

Our first group opponents were Doncaster Rovers and we didn't get off to the greatest of starts: inspiration proved inversely proportional to perspiration as we ran about like mad things and sweated our bollocks off for absolutely zero net profit. Doncaster looked sharper, more alert and well worth the one goal advantage that they held at half time.

The second half was a different kettle of carp altogether: too knackered and disillusioned to put in a great deal of running, we resorted to working the ball around and reaped dividends when Jed stuck away the rebound after Sam had a shot blocked. Buoyed by this, Jed went on a bit of a mission after the restart, chased down the opposing two centre halves, hustled them off the ball and stuck it past their keeper to give us a 2-1 advantage, whilst the rest of the team stood about with hands on hips.

The SBA were clearly in the ascendancy now and, when I received the ball on the edge of the opposing area, it provided the opportunity to pull off the naughtiest of nutmegs before providing the practised slide-rule pass of a nepotist; the arrival of my tousle-haired sibling at the back stick heralded another goal for the Sky Blues: a cool, cruel strike from Joe and Doncaster were left in no doubt that they were up shit creek in a smegma canoe.

Further opportunities for tomfoolerous goalscoring came and went, largely due to me tripping over the ball and scuffing shots, but the result was never really in doubt. The opposition, bemused and bewildered, were forced to embrace defeat like an incontinent and unlovely grandparent. 3-1 to the SBA it finished.

Our other group opponents were representatives of the Leicester Street League and evidently accomplished football practitioners. They quickly established a pattern of passing and moving with a lot of close support for the ball-carrier. This made getting the ball off them an absolute sod, but their condensed formation left them pretty vulnerable to well-worked couter attacks. With some good work up front from Banjo, Jed and Sam, we probably had the better of the early opportunities, but the oppo got their act together and knocked one past our prone custodian, namely myself.

Half-time saw Jed replace me in goal, but he let one in as well after a lightning raid from the opposition. We came storming back into the game, however, after Sam unleashed a fierce, low drive past the opposing goalie, leaving the custodian with a fair old dollop of football pie down the front of his shirt. The Street League team were looking a bit wary now, doubly so when Banjo crashed a long range effort off the top of their cross bar. Sadly, there was little other goalmouth incident of note and we fetched up on the wrong end of a 2-1 scoreline.

All of which left us with a quarter final against Middlesboro Fishbar, impressive qualifiers at the head of the group of four and co-sponsors of a certain tomfoolerous pitch invasion a few years back...

Early auspices were good: plenty of dedicated running from the boys in blue carved out a swathe of chances and, after Joe had rattled into Fishbar's chief playmaker, the ball broke to me on the right; a cross of vision and precision slanted across the area and Sam arrived to deftly volley home with his left foot. "Oh, and that's a different class," as the man himself might well have put it.

If Fishbar were put out by this dazzling display of quality, they somehow managed to conceal it. They showed resilience and determination, but their only shooting opportunity of any real note was curtailed when their forward accidentally kicked me instead of the ball and subsequently hobbled off nursing his foot.

The second half arrived and the SBA were dancing like butterflies and stinging like a dose of the Spanish Itch: all over the Fishbar goal like a rash and the opposition must have been wishing they'd brought a bit more protection. Flicks, tricks and fancy backheels had the Northern types agape and aghast, but their goal led a charmed life, partly because we were starting to make ourselves dizzy as well.

Then the sucker punch: a flick on from a goal kick and Tim in goal had a bit of a Seaman as the Fishbar forward looped a Nayim-style shot into the top corner (these were five-a-side sized goals, by the way.)

Horror abounded at this execrable occurence, but the SBA weren't ready to hit the panic button just yet- largely because Tim and myself had managed to leave it at home, along with the gout bandages and the linament.

The game was now afoot in deadly earnest: the fancy football had been slimmed down to a fighting weight and Tim marshalled his defenders rigorously, secretly dreading the consequences of the opposition getting another shooting opportunity. However, the Sky Blues prevailed- a tight, tricky one-two with Jed on the periphery of the Fishbar area enabled me to stab a decisive dagger of a shot through the Boro custodian's legs and deflate the Northern challenge. The SBA restricted the opposition's chances of an equaliser by not giving them the ball (kudos to Joe for stoically accepting a cross-field pass square in the knackers). Smiles and pats on the back all round and back to the stand for a quick game of sticky biscuit before the Semis.

Our semi final pitched us once more against the Street League types, but this time we were ready for them. A bright, brisk opening period saw us take the lead when Banjo served up a low drive into the bottom left-hand corner of the goal. Further chances came, but the Street Leaguers got a fillip when a lengthy passing move culminated in an equalising goal being belted home past Sam, whose turn in goal it was. I didn't quite catch his comment, but my renowned lip-reading expertise leads me to believe that he said "monkey farmer" as he picked himself up.

Not content with this brazen robbery, the Street League knocked in another, and would have made it three, but for Sam's outstretched foot. But at half time, we were still in the game.

This proved a short-lived luxury: the opening movement of the second half saw a venomous drive unleashed into the top corner of our goal whilst Joe was still getting used to the gloves. A fourth followed in quick succession and the SBA challenge was visibly wilting in the afternoon sunshine.

Not that it was all one-way traffic: there was still some crafty counter attacking on the go from the SBA, but- whilst the spirit was willing- the legs were absolutely bloody knackered. The most tomfoolerous attempt came when three of us got through against the opposing keeper, Sam's shot was parried across the goalmouth, Jed hurt his prostate going for the loose ball and I stretched to toe-end a left foot shot which pinged squarely off the post and came straight back through my legs. I'm only glad Ross wasn't there to see it.

More tomfoolery surfaced as the opposition finally hit a shot wide, only for David, who had manfully made his ground, to inadvertantly put it in the goal. At this point, I started to entertain suspicions that we might not be contesting the final.

After a sixth goal for the Street League, Joe decided that keeping goal wasn't really going to do much good any more and betook himself to playing rush goalie which- coincidentally- resulted in the opposition not managing to score any more goals. Indeed, it was the SBA who provided a fitting final flourish: Jed pulled intelligently wide to receive a ball from defence, taking the covering defender with him. His deftly delivered pass into the middle found me and Sam bearing down on the exposed goalie and I pinged an early shot into the bottom of the net. My cry of "Come on lads, we're back in it" drew scepticism from our lot and mirth from the opposing bench in equal measure.

Sadly, it was not to be: 6-2 was the final score and we trooped off the pitch to comfort our tearful cheerleaders and several of the oppostition who'd started supporting us instead, so winsome was our football.

After we'd got our breath back, I suggested a quick shower and then back out to see the final. We had a quick player of the tourny vote, for which I short-listed myself and Banjo.

"Hands up everyone who votes for me." Cue tumbleweed.

"Hands up for Banjo." One vote, and my own brother at that. "Congratulations Gav."

Back out to the final and we didn't really keep count of the score between Street League (who won) and Wolves: we were to busy singing "Small town near Walsall," "You can stick the Premier League up your arse" and (to the tune of a certain song about a jaundiced aquatic transport) "Wolves are going up but they're coming straight back down," complete with standing up and sitting down actions. Sometimes you just have to...

Overall, a very good day out. A great performance from all who came- the team adapted magnificently to the astroturf surface and, I have to say, could easily have picked up a bit more silverware. Tim espoused the values of good football and attitude throughout the day and led by example in both respects, David was a fearless tackler from start to finish and kept a number of tricky players quiet. Mick was generally called upon to fulfil an unfamiliar defensive role, but out-thought and out-fought opposing forwards, so no surprises there. Joe passed and moved intelligently, showing quick control and tenacious tackling and made the tricky surface look easy. Banjo had the shot of the day in the qualifiers, but managed to keep his shot in the semi final down, to deservedly bring home the coveted Player Of The Tourny Award and Sam made up for a paucity of talent with his preternatural, Henman-esque ability to take himself seriously (just kidding big man, you're in a class of your own). Our England international Jed, on top of a barn-storming salvo of goals in the opener, led the line, pulled strings, picked pockets and made the team tick. Not bad for a confirmed Tony Adams-type pisshead.

And me? "Well, (sniff) it just means so much to me to be here..."

Ultimately, we were outplayed in the semi-final, but we were never out-battled. Had a few of the early shots gone in, it might all have been very different. Thanks to all who made it, and especially to the cheerleaders, Anita, Di and Michelle, who probably won't recognise this hyberbolic claptrap as the same crap they spent their Saturday watching.