Report: Apparently, loads of teams in this league are really obsessed with winning and going up. Beckenham, for instance. All that huffing and puffing. They're welcome to it, it's not very graceful. We don't really care whether we win or lose, we're just having a great time thinking about what to do with our giant wisdom and well-rounded lives, and wondering how to persuade all the girls to calm down and give us a bit of a rest.

Portsmouth is in Portsmouth. No one from London, which is where hockey teams should be based, likes going there. Thus, when another team looks at the table and sees Portsmouth hanging around near the bottom, they suddenly think, 'Hey, even though we don't really care about winning, unlike Ashford, and Beckenham, and all these less beautiful teams, it's worth trying this week, because if we beat Portsmouth, and everyone else thinks the same way, and they also beat Portsmouth, then there is a chance we won't have to waste one of our Saturdays next year going to Portsmouth.'

So, atypically, we put a bit of effort in on Saturday. Portsmouth got tetchy and the game degenerated into the kind of flamboyant festival hockey that they didn't really know how to deal with, being roundheads rather than cavaliers. Matt Osbourne scored two goals with such pretty finishes that I am almost tempted to spell his name properly as a kind of homage. Almost. Tom Wakefield netted with a straight hard push from a short corner that went through the keeper's legs, and Paul Barker did the same with a penalty flick. This new guy Ddavidson scored late on. Adam Laird thinks Ddavidson is a box-to-box midfielder, but as far as the defenders are concerned, he might as well be a yeti. Roger Catchpole, which sounds like the name of the annoying neighbour in an early-eighties sitcom, scored a goal and then had a very long conversation with the umpire, who might have spilled his pint. If I was the umpire, I wouldn't be worried. An ant has an incredible power-to-weight ratio, but that doesn't mean I couldn't have an ant.

I got back to London at midnight, because I was in Jon Sleeman's wandering car. I kept under the radar of the adoring women, but Jon Sleeman is made of sterner stuff. He went out, put in the work, pretended to get drunk, pretended to listen to the nearest beautiful girl, and all that jazz. Good luck to him.

(Even though we don't much care about winning, we are unbeaten and second in the league. I guess we have it all.)