It is vital in the modern game to have a large squad with plenty of depth if you seriously want to challenge for honours at the highest level. Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea and even Leeds have all assembled a vast cast of international players to cope with the inevitable problems with injury, holidays and hangovers that will dog any club through a long season. And the Logica Supremo has not been slow to cotton on to this modern trend. He has already used 23 players in just four league games this season, and there have already been rumblings of discontent at the crap rotation system, which has seen the likes of Fazel and Taylor playing at full-back on occasions, and quality packed benches at other times.

The need to maintain a large, happy squad is thus paramount, but despite this it seems that once a season, even that is not enough. At such times, the Supremo has a last resort to fall back on; namely activating the Lag Network. A loose collection of ageing prima donnas who were a bit tasty in their youth apparently, when trophies were all the rage, these stalwarts have never yet let the club down. In the 1999/2000 season, it was Malcolm Dick who answered the call. This turned out to be a legendary footballing lesson as Logica thumped Ironprint by five goals to nil. Last season, when the gaffer was a bit short for a vital top of the table clash, it the self-styled legend himself, Keith Sidaway, who quickly changed into a cape in a handy phone box and came to Logica's rescue. Unfortunately, we lost that one 10-0 to Pump House. Whilst few would hold Sidaway in anyway responsible for that thrashing, Groom knew who to turn to for this season's Legendary Cameo. And once more, Dick didn't disappoint.

Now in his second full season in charge, the Supremo knows the value of experience. This was a game that Logica just had to win, and the gaffer plumped for a Lag spine to his team to give his formation that solid foundation. Dick would boss the back line; Reevaldo would cover every blade of grass from his base in the centre of the park; and Abbott would add pace and power to the front line.

The three points were surely in the bag before the game had even kicked off?!? Not usually noted for their swift mobility, the Lag-mobile duly headed out from Islington at 9am sharp after a brief detour to Hackney to pick-up the would-be hole-merchant. All started out well, as the Tier One motor sped confidently south. But after some time, the Lags found themselves heading in a distinctly westerly direction as Malcolm's in-car GPS system seemed to have lost the plot. They switched to manual mode, and just about managed to get the Lag-mobile back on course, eventually steering the wizened old blokes to their ultimate destination. As contrived analogies go, it would prove to be a pretty accurate one for the match to follow.

Missing the likes of Loriot, Richmond, Toman, Wood, Banoub as well as the injured pair of Hatton Major and Gautam, the Supremo was forced to shuffle his pack. Taylor's message-board mythering had earned him a place up front, whilst the midfield had a very attacking look about it with Jon Clarke supplemented by two strikers out wide in Hoyzone and Fazel. Logica were boosted just before kick-off by two events: injured Club Captain Div Gautam turned up to lend his support from the side-lines, whilst Townmead turned up with just ten men.

Logica started with confidence and were soon passing the ball crisply. Once Dick had calibrated his forehead, he marshalled his backline to miserly effect, and all the play took place in the visitors half. There were some neat moves down either flank and soon chances began to be carved out. Abbott shot wide from twenty yards, and Mainwaring headed into the side-netting from a deep, swirling Taylor cross. Abbott turned his marker from a throw-in, courtesy of an elaborate dummy, but his low cross from the bye-line was intercepted by the outstretched boot of the Townmead keeper as Fazel waited to pounce.

The pressure was finally bought to bear from a similar move. Mainwaring's throw was flicked on by Reevaldo to Abbott on the bye-line. The ageing forward executed a text-book Cruyff turn to leave his marker bamboozled before placing a left-foot cross plum on the head of Hoyland, who bulleted home clinically [1-0].

The numerically disadvantaged visitors hardly threatened, and the only real threat on the Logica goal came after Reevaldo had undertaken a small portion of his threatened blade coverage to execute a text-book forward's tackle just a yard outside the penalty area. Luckily the resulting free-kick was wastefully high. Logica continued to exploit the space, and Taylor was thwarted when the Townmead keeper rushed smartly from his line to smother a visionary Jon Clarke ball over the top a split-second before the Leeds man could convert.

Their number one looked pretty sharp, as he needed to be, and he foiled a similarly pacey break from Fazel who latched on to an Abbott through-ball. But their keeper was left helpless on the half-hour after some world-class fannying from Mark Abbott. A lofted pass from left-back Mainwaring was dummied by Taylor and ran through to the striker just outside the box. He turned back inside his marker, and executed a dummy of medium elaborateness to leave his man sliding on his arse in completely the wrong direction. Twang! Utilising the excellent dummy run of Hoyland, Abbott was able to flummox the next man by checking back on to his left foot by means of a dummyette that hardly registered on the elaboration scale. Twang! However, the big dummy was still in the locker, and Abbott lovingly unwrapped it. Shaping to shoot with an elaborate flourish caused two desperate defenders to go sliding in as Abbott wove back inside once more. Twang! With the last defender and goalkeeper nervously wondering if the Logica man would ever shoot, the Logica man pulled the trigger, and curled the nonciest of side-foot shots around both of them and just inside the far post from twelve yards [2-0]. The art of the fanny lives on, although it was later alleged that Abbott was simply waiting for the chance of an assist, but was finally forced to score himself.

However, the twanging noise audible throughout the intricate dribble was not the sound of defenders over-stretching themselves, but rather the sound of some of the striker's key muscles unable to contain their excitement at such drool-worthy noncery. After acclaiming the crowd, Abbott struggled back to the half-way line only to realise he had pulled both calf muscles and a hamstring. His luck was in, however, for as he battled on gingerly to see if the injuries would abate, he was presented with a simple chance for a second goal. Taylor did the hard work, getting to the bye-line and putting over a cross that eluded everybody. Fazel doubled back and returned the ball into the danger-zone sharply. The defender at the near post was too slow to react and the ball reached Abbott, who controlled the ball and thumped it past the keeper from six yards out. [3-0].

Abbott was not the only player struggling, as the impressive Jon Clarke had also injured a hamstring and was replaced during the interval by Harry Gill. Gill was immediately in the fray, robbing a defender and feeding Abbott out wide. The man with the brace returned a studied pass into the substitute's path, but although Gill battled past one defender the keeper pulled off a brilliant point-blank save to deny Logica a fourth goal.

From here on in, however, Logica's navigational system seemed to go on the blink and they lost their way significantly. Abbott succumbed to his injuries, and was replaced by Mercer Field, whilst the Supremo sacrificed himself to get Julian Howarth into the action. Despite this injection of fresh legs, Logica seemed to think the game was won, and relaxed so much that they nearly embarrassed themselves.

One of Townmead's players was forced to leave the field after falling heavily, and so the visitors were down to just nine men. This seemed to inspire their side whilst further confusing the home side. Logica's play became scrappy, lazy, and the frustration began to mount. They were giving the ball away too easily, and Townmead were somehow finding men in space. Suddenly Logica's back-line were being asked some testing questions, but luckily they had some answers. Trovato's pace enabled him to execute a number of sublimely timed sliding challenges to avert the danger, and there were some reminders of Dick's fine vintage, as he weighed in with some meaty challenges of his own.

Logica's numerical superiority did inevitably result in the occasional chance, as the pace of Field and Gill clearly unnerved the Townmead back three. Hoyland found himself in a good shooting position three times, but their keeper saved well on each occasion. Mainwaring came closest to adding a fourth with a superbly controlled volley which whistled a foot over the bar after a Logica corner was half-cleared.

At the other end, Scott Fleming suddenly found himself employed, as he was forced to tip an awkwardly bouncing ball over the bar, and do likewise for a long range shot that was creeping under the bar. When nine-man Townmead did pull a goal back, few could argue that they did not deserve it, as their big centre-half powered home a header from a corner. [3-1]. This remarkably made for an uncomfortable last ten minutes for the home side, and there were audible sighs of relief when first a low corner somehow fizzed right through a crowded six-yard box without anyone making contact, then when assistant referee Groom's flag called two tight offsides, and eventually when the referee blew the final whistle.

It would be wrong to think that Logica did not deserve their victory, for they were far superior in the first half and could have had more goals than the three they did score. But against ten men and ultimately just nine, their second half display was a tad on the shabby side. Giving the ball away far too quickly and easily, they allowed Townmead to take the initiative and even put pressure on the Logica defence. Luckily the legendary Dick was on hand to guide the team through a dodgy last half an hour, and ultimately navigate them safely to their final destination: victory, where three points lay waiting. Shame his GPS system is not quite so reliable...