Many a man has a sport fantasy. Mine is playing for Chelsea. I know this is true because I occasionally literally dream about it. Unfortunately, my subconscious is distressingly frank. In my dreams I do not score the winner at Wembley. Instead, I train with the squad and stand at the back thinking “bugger, how the heck did I get into this mess?” I then miskick and foul until the reserve team coach suggests I go take a shower. It’s barely worth falling asleep for that kind of nonsense.

P was a junior international for Scotland in Lacrosse. I’m in awe of her (that being only one of many reasons). If I tell her it must be amazing to have represented one’s country she looks at me pityingly and explains that there weren’t that many junior lacrosse players to choose from. So?!? If I could invent a sport and get it internationally recognised I would do so if it meant the merest hint of that kind of glory.

If I can’t play for Chelsea (and I’m assured that I can’t) the one thing that lingers in my fat-clogged heart as an impossible dream is rowing in the Boat Race. I could bore for Britain (is that a recognised sport?) on the topic of just how extraordinarily fit and dedicated you need to be to row in that race. I did some rowing “back in the day” and indeed was once in a crew which received some coaching from Sean Bowden, Oxford’s coach. He was so terrifying and the regime so tough that I promptly retired.

The peak of my career was rowing against Steve Redgrave’s crew in the Head of the River (a race rowed on the Thames in the reverse direction to the Boat Race). My crew gave his a decent run for its money. He was rowing for Leander and came second whereas my crew came … about 600th.

Chez Moobs we are split P being Light Blue to my Dark Blue. Following the time-honoured tradition between us, Oxford’s stupendous win today means:

(1) I am the best person in the house; and

(2) I get to have my wicked way with her.