I played my second game for Hermitage United this weekend. Before the match we were rock bottom of the table and staring relegation in the face. So this was going to be a 6 pointer against Port of Leith FC (for those of you that don't know, Leith is where Edinburgh's 'Ladies of the night' sell their wares. I don't expect you would know, I've lived here for 2 years and I didn't know until Rich came to stay and went for 'a walk').

I wasn't feeling too clever before the game, at some point over Christmas, I think someone had broken into my flat in the dead of night and replaced my liver with a piece of carpet. I'd only been out for a few quiet pints the night before and I was really struggling. So, I was kind of thankful when the manager handed me my very own brand spanking new team jacket, accompanied by the words 'You'll be needing that, it's fecking Baltic out there'.

Sure enough it was. Our home pitch is just a Seagull's shit away from the coast and the wind blows long and cold. It starts in Greenland and heads north towards the Arctic Circle, then it turns and howls over Svalsbard and down through the Fjords of Scandinavia, skims it's merry way over the North Sea, picks up a few gallons of icy water through the firth of Forth and for an hour, proceeded to deposit most of them straight up my shorts. As the clock ticked away, I could feel my testicles slowly shrinking. I can understand now how Nick gets away with wearing kiddies pants still and I was seriously considering chucking it all in and buying a table tennis bat or a crochet hook.

The pitch is difficult to describe. In fact the only easy bit about describing the pitch is knowing I can't really use the word 'playable'. Still, the game went on. The flanks were frozen solid and I think at least one of the corner flags disappeared through a seal's blowhole. The centre circle was a quagmire. One of our midfielders was subbed off at half-time after going down with early symptoms of trenchfoot. It was touch and go for a while, but he managed to get to the pub before gangrene set in.

All things considered, the team actually played quite well. The first 20 minutes, we played with style and grace and had waltzed the ball into the back of the net three times. I don't think Torvill and Dean could have coped with the conditions any better. So after a majestic first 45 minutes, we came in 3-0 up. Wow. Have I bitten off more than I can chew here? Have I been hustled into thinking I could hold a place down in the side? Well, no. Sure enough the worm turned for a while. And after a ridiculous early scramble in our own box. We somehow gifted them a goal from nothing. By this time my retinas were frozen solid and I hadn't blinked for 12 and a half minutes, so I couldn't really see who was at fault, suffice to say it was crap!

But we somehow picked it up again and scored a wonder goal to go 4-1 up. Then, with 30 minutes to go and with the result still in the balance, on came Regan with a bit of to and fro, a duck and dive and a bob and weave. I tried to keep it simple, using the width of the park and letting the ball do the work. I was running the first 10 yards in my head and with a mazy run and the vision of an ant, all of a sudden, a tentative 4-1 whisker of a lead and potential banana skin, is turned into a comfortable, unassailable and match winning 5-1 lead. What a result and what a master substitution from the Manager.

After the game, the showers were absolutely freezing cold - the water was, well, barely that, but that didn't stop the good times rolling with a lot of tomfoolery and general 'naked man fun' being had by all. I remember watching them from the safety of my towel, thinking these naked guys are so hard and I want to be one of them'.

NEXT EPISODE: Jock McClachan's guide to football and enimas.