Report by Reevaldo

As the famed philosopher and architect of the seventeenth century intellectual revolution Rene Descartes so memorably put it in his Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting Reason: there ain't no party like an S Club party.

At approximately 1pm on Sunday, a gathering of jubilant players in Clapham's Falcon hostelry were slowly beginning to understand exactly what the great Frenchman meant. The taste of victory over Racing Club Santos was sweet indeed. Such was the nature of their magnifique cup victory earlier that morning that, as the pints went down, they found themselves dipping in to Descartesian logic to ensure that they had not all in fact dreamt it. We drink, therefore we won.

But this result was no dream; just a dream performance that puts Logica into the last eight of the Ron Le Beau Trophy.

Earlier that morning, suitably enough outside a French patisserie, one of the club's deepest thinkers had revealed that he had indeed been dreaming about the tactics that would be required to put away a team that had twice beaten Logica convincingly by an aggregate of 9-2 over the previous three weeks. Paul Banoub's nocturnal revelation was that the Santos players needed to be put under greater pressure when they were on the ball. Supremo Groom, exhausted after a gathering of intellectuals at Shoeless Joe's, could only nod in agreement, the fumes on his breath testimony to just how hard he had been pursuing his own unique brand of analytical reasoning throughout the night.

Banoub's words had not gone unheeded. From the first whistle, Logica's 4-4-2 determined not to give the S Clubbers the undue respect they had been given on previous encounters. And how apt that one of Descartes' fellow countrymen should be at the heart of the action. Apt too that a man from Hull - regular readers will need no reminder that Descartes' 'Cogito Ergo Sum' breakthrough was made at Stand 5C of that city's Bus Terminus - should prove an equally key factor. Sandric Loriot and Richard McWilliam led by example, harrying and closing down the Santos midfield and quickly establishing their superiority.

The dashing Loriot was the D'Artagnan of the midfield with his rapier-like runs at the heart of the Santos defence. He even had the silly little beard. To his left, the swift and skilful McWilliam took the role of Porthos, continually putting the Santos right back to the sword. Alongside him was Tim Wood as the trusty Athos, strong in the heat of battle, winning the ball and playing his trademark intelligent passes. That left Reeves as, er, the other one. Aramis? Or is that just Jez Brown's brand of aftershave?

The musketeers soon began to carve out some decent chances. Jeff Hatton, continuing a clever run into the box, found himself with a shooting chance from Loriot's through ball and Reeves' dummy, but his well-struck shot went just wide. Reeves was denied by the keeper from his left foot after the tireless Taylor's clever back flick. McWilliam tried his luck from the edge of the box, and Loriot was unlucky with a header.

There were a few reminders of how dangerous Santos could be. After a rare missed header from Manlio Trovato, the whinging Smudger bore down on goal, but Hatton Major made up ground superbly to do just enough to force him to blaze over. Then Gill pulled off the save of the game with a sensational tip over from close range after a corner.

As the half drew to a close, Banoub's persistence carved himself a good chance, but the bustling forward's clever chip from 18 yards was somehow clawed away by the keeper's fingertips.

If anything, Logica began the second half even more convincingly, and the key to this was as solid a defence performance as has been seen all season. Marsh, a late call-up at left back, continued his good run of form with strength in the air as well as on the floor. Phil Hatton on the right showed characteristic calm, and made a magnificent saving challenge midway through the half when a Santos player was shaping to shoot.

The Santos players - whose names were becoming familiar after so many recent encounters - began to get frustrated. Smudger was erased by a towering Trovato performance; Tetley began to get bitter in midfield; and Joe-Boy on the left was looking more like the Waltons' John Boy.

Then came the breakthrough. Not for the first time, McWilliam scorched down the left and skinned the last defender before heading for the byeline. Reeves begged for the pull back, and was rewarded by an inch-perfect ball which he smartly sidefooted into the roof of the net. [1-0].

Ten minutes later, Logica were two up with a similar move. This time it was Loriot's skill down the left that bewildered the defence. His measured cross found Taylor and McWilliam in front of goal, and it was the Hull man's touch that bundled the ball over the line. [2-0].

Further chances followed. Reeves' header from one of Taylor's epic long throws was knocked onto the post by the keeper and swept away as it bounced back across the goal. Only the referee disagreed that it had crossed the line. Then Taylor was put through by Reeves' chip, but the keeper guessed right in the one-on-one and made a sharp save low to his right.

Thus it was against the run of play that Santos found themselves with a lifeline. As the ball bounced loose near the edge of the box, Joe-Boy hit a dipping lob with more hope than expectation, and saw it drop just over Gill's despairing fingertips and into the net 2-1. This was slightly harsh on Gill, who had been safe and composed enough to more than merit a clean sheet.

The goal could have sparked a nervy last ten minutes, but this Logica outfit was made of sterner stuff. Rather than sitting back to absorb the onslaught, they continued to play their own way by taking the game to the increasingly tetchy Santos. Wood, McWilliam and Loriot refused to relinquish their grip on the centre of the park, and Mercer Field, on for Banoub, provided some fresh legged runs up front.

Only once were hearts in mouths, as a dangerous cross found the defence stretched, but the titans Hatton and Trovato combined to clear the danger.

And so, at the final whistle, Groomo's Army could celebrate and the Supremo himself could breathe a sigh of relief that he wouldn't have to vomit on the touchline - such are the stresses of watching his lads play, apparently. It's a testament to his love for the team that he made his way back to the comfort of his own home, to chunder in peace, so as not to disrupt his tender charges' celebrations.

And as the pints in the Falcon flowed, and the post-match analysis hit full stride, I like to think that another great philosopher, that forward thinking Sunday football administrator Ron Le Beau himself, was smiling down benignly from his place among the Football Gods. He surely would have been delighted that such a performance graced round two of the cup that bears his name. Did they deserve to go through? As his namesake, Ron Atkinson (or Ron Le Grand as they call him in France), might say: I'll tell you what, Clive, Not Much.

And do the combined wisdoms of messieurs Descartes, Le Beau and Atkinson suggest Logica have what it takes to progress to the semi-finals? They do, Ren, Ron, Ron. They do Ron, Ron.

Logica's heroes enjoy the sweet taste of victory. [Photo: Loriot]