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As the sun decided to flood the occasion with it’s golden shafts of light, the gladiators took to the arena to the silent adoration of the fans who had flocked to witness the spectacle. Such was the suspense that tea and mars bars along with the odd chalice of that amber nectar, Bovril, were left to decrease in temperature.

Prawn sandwiches were left un-eaten in the gods as they looked down in awe at the unfurling tapestry of skill and unbridled enthusiasm these perfect specimens of muscle and sinew were displaying. Never had Pegasus the winged equine looked as toned as it carried Bellerophon in his struggle with the fire-breathing Chimaera.

First to grasp the poisoned chalice was Charlie B of the Choir Boys. The white orb was placed on the sacred spot and to a near perfect hush arrowed the ball into the net like an arrow from the bow of Kranyatz the giant.

Who from the honourable Lord of Leicester’s would be prepared to even the score. Up stepped Uncle Gresley Bear looking like Heracles as he tackled the Nemean Lion.
His shot graced the gladiatorial occasion as he brought the contest to an even footing.

James K was next. Looking like Mercury with winged feet he sent the Choir Boys into raptures has he gave a precious lead as sweet as ambrosia.

The goliaths looked crest fallen and Matty Dingle was called upon to bring them back from the abyss as black as the underworld.

To utter unbelief of the partisans Matty fired his deceptive shot but the guardian of the net held it like Cerberus the three-headed dog, the guardian of the underworld, held on to any unsuspecting lesser mortal who dared to trespass in his domain.

The Choir Boys were now hitting the high notes but would they crash down the scale as J-Me stepped up. Horrors of Horrors the young gladiator had his shot saved. Was the god of the penalty area beginning to take a shine to the Lord of Leicester’s chequered soldiers?

Dave J looked with disdain at the task in hand as Hercules viewed the seven tasks allotted to him. But again the goliaths needed to hang their heads in shame as the ball failed to register.

The cracks were appearing. Could Milla bring some welcome relief to the Choir Boys’obvious discomfort in front of the baying spectators around the arena? No. Had the golden notes of that heavenly score deserted the young choristers? Were their once harmonious actions now becoming a discord of unheard off proportions? What started off as a scherzo was fast becoming a dirge like the ‘march to the scaffold’.

Chambo now had the chance to herald his Lordship’s pages into action. Looking the epitome of athleticism, raced towards the orb and time stood still as his cultured foot struck the sphere and it arched onwards but alas wide of the upright.

His Lordship was now distraught has the last of his gallant army failed to bring honour to his name and reputation knowing he would have to show true bravery and to carry the load as Aeneas had carried his father on his back as Troy burnt.

Munk, the dark horse of the heavenly choir, strode up with a purpose. No keeper of the goal, baying spectators or gods looking down was going to stop him from bringing glory and honour to the young pretenders of his Lordship’s throne.
The crowd hushed his foot came back and the Choir Boys were singing in sweet harmony again.

Could the Lord of Leicester himself come to the rescue of his defeated troops as King Arthur will do when England requires him?

Clothed in the chequered livery that becomes his status and carrying what must now surely become the most famous number, 13, on his back which scores of youngsters will now be copying and demanding from sports shops around his kingdom, the Lord himself strode up to the sacred spot. And, despite having to put the orb of competition back on its spot several times, ripped back the veil of time to reveal his skill from another age and slotted his teams only other successful attempt, to bring a heart stopping demonstration of how the penalty shot should be taken in this modern age of the beautiful game.

And so the curtain came down on this theatre of war. The victorious Choir Boys jubilant at the 3 - 2 score line and the Lord of Leicester and his pages left to lick their wounds and skulk away into the distance like some beaten older lion usurped by a young virile pretender

Seriously though, well done to each and every one of you for providing a little lighthearted fun and for raising £100 for the club. Here’s to the next one!!