On Sunday mornings Dennis used to play football for his local club. He dreamed of being a professional footballer, but after his mum and dad split up he stopped going. He had always relied on his mum to give him a lift–Dad couldn’t take him as he was forever driving up and down the country in his lorry trying to make ends meet.

      So Dennis’s dream floated quietly away.

      Dennis did play football for his school though, and was his team’s number one… shooter?

      Sorry, reader, I must look this up.

      Ah, striker.

      Yes, Dennis was his team’s number one striker, scoring over a million goals in a year.

      Excuse me again, reader, I don’t know much about football, maybe a million is too much. A thousand? A hundred? Two?

      Whatever, he scored the most goals.

      As a result, Dennis was incredibly popular with his team-mates–except the captain, Gareth, who picked Dennis up on every little mistake on the pitch. Dennis suspected that Gareth was jealous of him because he was a better footballer. Gareth was one of those boys who are unusually large for their age. In fact you wouldn’t be surprised to find he was really five years older than everyone else in his year, but had just been held back on account of being a bit thick.

      Once, Dennis was off school with a really bad cold on a match day. He had just finished watching that day’s Trisha, a gripping episode about a woman who discovered she was having an affair with her own husband. Then he was looking forward to some Heinz tomato soup and his second favourite show Loose Women, where a panel of angry looking ladies debated important issues of the day–like diets and leggings.

      But just as the signature tune was starting there was a knock at the door. Dennis got up grumpily. It was Darvesh, Dennis’s best friend at school.

      “Dennis, we desperately need you to play today,” pleaded Darvesh.

      “I’m sorry, Darvesh, I’m just not feeling well. I can’t stop sneezing or coughing. Aaachoooo! See?” replied Dennis.

      “But it’s the quarter finals today. We’ve always got knocked out at the quarter-finals before. Please?”

      Dennis sneezed again.

      It was such a strong sneeze he thought he was going to turn inside out.

      “Pleeeaaassseee,” said Darvesh hopefully as he discreetly wiped some of Dennis’s stray snot from his tie.

      “OK, I’ll try,” coughed Dennis.

      “Yeeeessss!” exclaimed Darvesh, as if victory was already theirs.

      Dennis gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of soup, grabbed his kit and ran out of the house.

      Darvesh’s mum was sitting in her little red Ford Fiesta outside, with the engine running. She worked on the tills at Sainsbury’s, but lived to see her son play football. She was the proudest mum in the world, which always made her son squirm a little.

      “Thank goodness you have come, Dennis!” she said as Dennis clambered onto the back seat. “The team needs you today, it’s a very important match. Without doubt the most important match of the season!”

      “Just drive please, Mum!” said Darvesh.

      “All right! All right! We’re going! Don’t talk to your mother like that Darvesh!” she shouted, pretending to be angrier than she really was. She put her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched uncertainly off towards the school playing fields.

      “Oh, you’ve decided to come have you?” growled Gareth as they pulled up. Not only was he bigger than everyone else, he had a deeper voice, and was disturbingly hairy for a boy his age.

      When he showered he looked like a big monkey.

      “Sorry, Gareth I just wasn’t feeling well. I have a pretty bad…”

      Before Dennis could say “cold,” he sneezed again even more violently than before.

      “Oh sorry, Gareth,” said Dennis, wiping a small gloop of snot from Gareth’s ear with a tissue.

      “Let’s just do this,” said Gareth.

      Feeling weak with illness, Dennis ran onto the school pitch with his team, coughing and spluttering all the way.

      “Good luck boys! Especially my son Darvesh, and of course his friend Dennis! Let’s win this for the school!” shouted Darvesh’s mum from the side of the pitch.

      “My mum is like so embarrassing,” rumbled Darvesh.

      “I think it’s cool she comes,” said Dennis. “My dad’s never seen me playing in a match.”

      “Let’s see a nice goal from you today please, Darvesh my son!”

      “Mmm, maybe she is a bit embarrassing,” agreed Dennis.

      That afternoon they were playing St Kenneth’s School for Boys, one of those schools where the pupils felt a little superior just because their parents had to pay for them to go there. They were a very good team though, and within the first ten minutes had scored. The pressure was immediately on, and Darvesh stole the ball off a boy who looked twice his size and passed it to Dennis.

      “Lovely tackle, Darvesh my son!” shouted Darvesh’s mum.

      The thrill of possessing the ball made Dennis forget his cold for a moment, and he weaved his way through the defence and approached the goal-keeper, a luxuriant-haired boy sporting brand new kit, who was probably called Oscar or Tobias or something. All of a sudden they were face to face, and Dennis sneezed again uncontrollably.

      The snot exploded onto the goalie’s face, blinding him for a moment, and all Dennis needed to do was tap the ball past the line.

      “Foul!” shouted the goal-keeper, but the referee allowed it. It was foul, but not technically a foul.

      “I’m sorry about that,” said Dennis. He really hadn’t meant to do it.

      “Don’t worry, I have a tissue!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum. “I always carry a packet with me.” She hurtled onto the pitch, hitching up her sari to avoid the mud and ran up to the goalie. “There you go, posh boy,” she said, handing him the tissue. Darvesh rolled his eyes at his mother’s one-woman pitch invasion. The goalie tearfully wiped Dennis’s mucous from his floppy hair. “Personally I think St Kenneth’s doesn’t stand a chance,” she added.

      “Mummmm!” shouted Darvesh.

      “Sorry! Sorry! Play on!”

      Four goals later, one from Dennis, one from Gareth, one from Darvesh, and one ‘accidental’ deflection from Darvesh’s mum and the game was won.

      “You are through to the semi-final boys! I can’t wait!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum as she drove the boys home, beeping out tunes on the Ford Fiesta’s horn in celebration. For her it was as if England had won the world cup.

      “Oh please don’t come Mum, I beg you. Not if you’re gonna do that again!”

      “How dare you, Darvesh! You know I wouldn’t miss the next game for the world. Oh you make me so proud!”

      Darvesh and

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