The mob moved over to the left of the pitch, Staring Crone breaking away from the pack and weaving in and out of the defenders. She ran fast, the ball tucked carefully under her arm, and her tangled hair streaming out behind her. But then another defender tackled from the left, ramming into her legs. She fell to the ground, dropping the ball behind her, and lay there wobbling gently whilst the rest of the pack scrabbled around. The ball was slippery by now from all the jellyfish mucus, so it took a while for anybody to get a grip, but when they did, they were off again, the ball flying towards the other side of the pitch.

‘Come on, man!’ shouted Soldier John loudly.

‘Yeah, we can do this!’ came calls from a few of the others.

The pack moved off quickly, the ball being passed along the line at speed. James’s defenders were much weaker than ours, and over on the other side of the pitch I saw Lana duck her head down and wince away as the ball started coming towards her.

They looked a fearsome mob, with lots of shouting and random grunting. It was very difficult to tell who was on which side, which is always a hazard, and I think might need to be investigated in the future as I’m fairly sure not everybody stays on the side they’ve started on.

We started a jellyfish wave, as usual. ‘Whoop!’ came the shout from my left, and round the whole of the Jellyfish, a wave was passed along the defenders. Each in turn, we waved our arms and bodies in the air. If the match is dull, sometimes the movements can get complicated so that it turns into more of a dance routine. Sometimes that’s part of the team tactics too, because some of the defenders (naming no names, Lana), can get more caught up with what moves they’re supposed to be making than what’s going on in the game.

I don’t know what happened this time, actually. Somehow, it was Old Albert who ended up with the ball – unlikely as that might seem. He’s never great at kicking, so I had high hopes we’d still win. But this time he twisted his whole body and gave a belter of a kick, sending the ball right past the plastic bottle goal markers. The ball went flying right over all of our heads and landed at least ten feet out into the sea.

‘Oh, well.’ Old Albert shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but we’ll just have to make another ball.’ He made to head off to the Big House.

‘Hang on,’ said James. ‘Where are you going? You’ve almost scored.’

‘Yes, but my kicking was too good,’ said Old Albert, as though this, too, was inevitable. ‘I can’t get the ball back now.’