Once again with charismatic leader Clarke ill-disposed, the Logica club crumpled into a sad and farcical heap. Fifteen minutes after the appointed kick-off time, there are only nine players and no kit.

Finally opting to make the best of a bad job, Logica collect together whatever bits of kit they can find and head out to do battle in a strange set of attire varying from the single, pristine Logica strip available, to the Steptoesque grand- pappy long-johns sported by the ever style-conscious Toman. The nine men, which even included the stereo-typed mates of mates, nearly held out until half-time, but were undone by a goal out of nothing from Monaco a few minutes before the break. This killed off whatever resistance Logica had thus far mustered.

By the time the second half began, Millar was out of the bath and Logica were up to ten, but it made little difference and two further goals gave a moderate Lambeth outfit a comfortable win in a sad imitation of the great game of football.