Now this is a long story so batten down the hatches, put the cat out, turn off the oven and brace yourselves.

Back in November my uncle passed away. He and my Dad went way back growing up a few streets apart and then through rowing together at Mortlake Rowing club. To become my Uncle he had to marry my Aunt (My Dads Sister). Obviously. Some years after moving away from London and having both started families we spent nearly all my childhood summer holidays camping together in France and Cornwall.

Looking back it was only a few holidays really, 6 summers in fact. But they occupy a disproportionate volume of my child hood memory. I think you could say they were definitely events. I have many such events Could share. Panic not. I have only one I wish to share tonight.

The reason I started this blog is that in the condolence card I sent my Aunt (couldn't make the funeral because - Guess what? the heap of junk was at the mechanics having failed cataclysmically again) was a posed photo of my Dad and Uncle on holiday in Brittany. It was posed as if in a football team and one was holding a bottle of washing up liquid and one a globe Artichoke. The significance of the Artichoke is lost on me now but the washing up liquid was due to the fact the the two of them were pretty much on continual washing up duty over these holidays. I liked the photo a lot as it summed up the irreverence and downright silliness of the pair. Both successful in their own field and in very down to earth ways but yet knew how to "let their hair down" when the time was right.

So looking at this photo after all this time got me to thinking about the holiday as a whole. There were all the usual holiday stuff there but one story sticks out and it is with a certain amount of shame on my part. This is something of a confession. I don't think I have talked of this since the day in question.

The campsite we were staying at had all sorts of facilities and one was a football pitch (soccer). A happy camper who happened to be Scottish took it upon himself to organise a European championship amongst the campers. Naturally, being English, I had determined that I in fact possesed an inherited gene that enabled me to be a superior footballer than my continental cousins. I readily agreed. The nationality mix in the campsite necessitated the game to become UK vs. the rest of the world and we had a good 15 a side. The game became quite a melee with 30 pairs of feet of all ages and sizes chasing a ball around a half size pitch.

It has to be said that the UK was getting a bit of a pasting as the Rest of the world were on the whole younger and fitter. I was becoming infuriated with this humiliation of national pride. It was all right for the Scots they are used to losing but for an Englishman it was too much. I took it upon myself to prevail against this heathen crowd of swarthy oiks and stamp my mark on the game.

It was about time, I thought to myself, that this French lad dancing around with the ball glued to his feet felt a bit of British leather round his ankles and so chased him down. My first dozen or so challenges did not go so well as he skipped past me lithely and scampered goal wards with me trailing in his wake.

"ENOUGH"I snorted to myself and vowed that none shall pass from now on. As an expression of the "greatness" of English football know how my response was quite shameful and yet somewhat apt. As he easily glanced the ball one way and ran around the other side of me I had a snap decision to make, play the ball or the man. My answer owed more to the Vinnie Jones School than the Bobby Moore way. I stuck my leg out and made sure he took a tumble whilst the ball ran free. I can still see the shock in his face as he wrestled with the sheer criminality of what I had done. Another Johnny Foreigner bites the dust after assuming an Englishman was a gentleman and a sport.

On the next pass (I had long given up any idea of trying to get around him whilst carrying the ball!) he gave me more room so that he was out of leg reach but hadn't bargained that I would race after him and hack him down from behind before he got a chance to collect the ball!

He wised up from then on and the elbows began to fly and it all got personal but at every stage I was victorious as I was always prepared to go that little bit further in my endeavours.

In my ears was a comment I used to get at school that if you tackled a man and he walked away - it was a bad tackle.

I know not what the score was but matey French man extracted the last kick fouling me quite physically whilst carrying out a spell as goalie. In true Premier League style I was even affronted enough by his audacity to shout for a foul.

I can safely say that I sent a French boy into his adult years believing you should never turn your back on an English Left back!