Hired for "glamour." Stayed for the whole squad. Is this Lily's filthiest team performance yet?

I've had four continents worth of bad decisions, and enough filthy confessions behind me that you'd think nothing could still surprise me. Then Jeff rang with a "boring" little booking, glamour work at a non-league football club's promotion dinner, a few hundred quid and a free dinner, and I thought I knew exactly what kind of night I was walking into. I didn't. I never do, and that's rather the point.

They sat me dead centre on the top table. Manager on one end, chairman on the other, and four of his players close enough either side that I clocked the arrangement within twenty minutes flat. By the time the trophy was lifted and the whole room was on its feet cheering, I'd already made a decision about how this evening was going to end, and it had absolutely nothing to do with raffle tickets.

What follows is every filthy inch of a promotion night I still think about two years on: hands under a paper tablecloth during the speeches, a toilet with a broken lock and a very eager striker, a slow dance that stopped being about dancing within thirty seconds. And once the bar shut and the families went home, an entire changing room and shower block that I turned into something Bramble Green FC's committee will never, ever hear about.

One of those five men wanted something from me I genuinely didn't see coming, not the young cocky one, not the married one white-knuckling his wedding ring all night. This confession's got a proper twist in it, and I'm not spoiling that here. You'll have to earn it the way I did. Come on then. Kick-off's in five minutes, and I'm already soaked through.