Darren had just finished showing me a new app he’d downloaded called ‘Auto-Courgette’ that converts ordinary words on your phone into the names of vegetables, when I told him about my plans to become a full-time writer. On stage was Daft Funk, a two-piece act from Bermondsey, who specialised in the reimagining of popular songs from the 70s and 80s via the medium of aged or obsolete technology. Sounds and rhythms were created through the use of typewriters, Rolodexes, fax machines, toasters and early computer games. Already tonight we’d been treated to ‘Tracks of My Teasmade’, ‘Islands in the SodaStream’ and ‘All Night Pong’.

‘A writer?’ he repeated. He grinned and shook his head as if he found the whole idea amusing but in a mildly baffling kind of way. ‘Writing what, exactly?’

‘You know, words and all that. In the form of poems, most probably.’

‘You’re going to be a poet?’ he said, properly laughing now. ‘Good luck with that!’

‘Not a poet. Just somebody who writes poems.’

There was more onstage beeping and the band launched into a James Brown cover.

‘Don’t tell Sophie,’ I said but Darren’s attention had shifted back to Daft Funk. While everyone else was being taken to the bridge, I took myself to the bar. By the time I returned to the throng, I was horrified to discover that the whole crowd was dancing, Darren included. I’d had enough retro-kitsch for one evening. As they went into the opening bars of ‘Breville, Breville’, I took one look at my Pac-Man watch and headed for the exit.

Saturday April 28th

‘Let us no longer wallow in the goalmouth of despair, I say to you today, my friends!’ he cried. ‘And so even though there are difficulties ahead, I have a team!’ There were cheers.

‘It is a team deeply rooted in the idea of team. I have a team that lives out the true meaning of its creed: “All players are created equal!” ’

More whoops and high-fives followed from the team and their proud parents as Rob Trafford stuffed his speech into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and the season of near misses and belated mellow fruitfulness was over. Dylan had taught him well.

Dylan himself stepped up to receive the Players’ Player’s Player of the Year Award, as chosen by Magnus, the Players’ Player of the Year. It was an emotional scene: wanting to end his career on a high, Dylan has decided this season is to be his last.

He was still clutching his trophy as I dropped him back at Sophie’s.

‘What’s all this I hear about you becoming a writer?’ she said.

Thanks very much for that, Darren. I tried to respond in a confident manner.

‘Well . . . I’ve always been quite good with words. So I thought I’d – you know – try to grasp the thorn by the nettle.’