Up there, Cazaly

Most people, including my father, have significant amounts of trouble when it comes to imagining me playing football. My ball skills aren't what you might think they would be.
However, last weekend Community Newspaper's held a friendly match between the north and south offices and I took to the field with my southern colleagues.
Not only did we win, but I looked fetching in my beautiful black and red jersey (which , with a Bernina and half an hour could have looked fantastic).


This is me tackling Michael T for mark. I did actually manage to take a mark at one point - earning me Mark of The Match. I got a little trophy and everything (it was totally Schick). The fact that I marked the ball by accident in order to stop it smacking into my pretty little face is neither here nor there.


That now-famous mark meant I got to kick the ball - which I did brilliantly (straight to the opposition, who then kicked it straight back for a goal). But being as I had to ask what they wanted me to do with the ball in the first place, I still considered this quite an achievement.


At other points I simply danced past the ball with the kind of grace Nureyev would have been proud of.


So the only answer was to get boozed with award-winning reporter-to-the-stars Bea.
Now that I am an award-winning footballer, with a lovely arse, I feel equal to other award-winners (of whom I am apparently so jealous... depending on who you ask) like Bea. ["in-joke" alert]