The fantasy football league is well underway in the office. The advent of this most inglourious season has led me to realise that there remain in society, even today, men and men. The first group shun the sun and enjoy all things sedentary. The latter posses chests of formidable hairiness, (or hairlessness!), consume prodigious volumes of alcohol and are able to discuss sports and sportsmen into the wee hours of the morning with utter contempt for present and perhaps natural state of inebriation. That I wasn’t aware of the distinction is probably a good indicator that I belong in the nerdy you-don’t-qualify group. I suspect that neolithic hunter gatherers would probably have evolved into the latter group and must therefore deduce that men like me are in fact an evolutionary branch sprung unhindered from the main trunk of humanity upon the appearance of comfortable chairs and office space.

 That aside my team’s rankings have now clearly identified me as a sport-hating chair-hogger to all and sundry. The only confusion persisting is a lone friend and colleague of mine who clearly qualifies as the genuine sport loving man and yet does poorly in the fantasy football stakes. Perhaps my underperforming team isn’t the indicator I thought? After all I could perhaps recognise Rio Ferdinand, especially if he was surrounded by caravaners shouting his name…