Danny Baker, outspoken columnist and general motormouth, pointed out how Chelsea had been whinging about the state of the pitch for their Cup Winners' Cup final the previous week. This example makes their minor tribulations - blizzards in Tromso, quagmires in Stockholm - pale into insignificance.

A letter I received a few weeks back tells of soccer played in just about the most extreme conditions imaginable. In 100-degree heat. And at gunpoint. The letter comes from a Mr Jay Schitto and is so magnificent that anyone who giggles at his name does not deserve to experience its full drama. The story takes place in rural Australia where Mr S works as a ranger. "The school at Wiluna has only one football and the kids use it for Aussie Rules, basketball, volleyball and football. A local nuisance, Kepto, an Aborigine alcoholic, was arrested for breaking into the school and stealing the television set and the football. I, being the local authority, had to escort Kepto to the nearest courthouse at Geraldton, so, with he handcuffed to my seat belt, we set off on the 600-mile journey. After a few hours I felt a bit sorry for the prisoner and released his handcuffs. "Big mistake. Travelling at sixty over the rough desert, Kepto grabbed the ball from behind his seat, opened the door and rolled out. I slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a halt and jumped out half expecting Kepto to be a pile of broken bones at the trackside. In fact he was a quarter of a mile behind, running away and kicking the football in front of him. Like an idiot, instead of getting back in the car and going after him, I set off in pursuit on foot. Now being 19 stone and in 100-degree heat I soon slowed down and for a moment lost track of him. However, seeing as the only features in the vicinity were two Bulabo bushes about 800 yards ahead I had a fair idea where he was. "As I got closer to the bushes I could smell him - the heat brought the alcohol in him to a distinctive perfume - but could not see him. Then I felt something tug at my belt. I spun around and there was Kepto with my gun in one hand and the football in the other. Although he had not spoken one word in our trip from Wiluna it became apparent that we were now playing by his rules. He pointed the gun at my face, grinned like a madman and said but one word: 'Maradona'. This trigger-happy alcoholic absconder wanted to play football, he had my gun, what was there to argue about? "For the next three hours, using the Bulabo bushes as goalposts, I had to act as goalkeeper while he took pot shots at me. If I made a save he would shout 'moolango!' and point the gun at me. "As you can imagine, after three hours of this I was absolutely at the limit of exhaustion and decided, a bit late perhaps, that some psychology might get me out of this hell. 'Hey Maradona,' I shouted, 'I think you deserve a drink. I have some beer in the car!' At which point, he nodded, took one last shot . . . and collapsed on the ground. "I approached him cautiously, then kicked the gun out of his hand. He was stone dead. There is no punchline I'm afraid, except to say I think he died a happy man, playing with his stolen football. Yours, Jay Schitto, Wiluna, Western Australia." I know, I know it has "Short Film" written all over it. More importantly it provides me with the weapon I have been seeking to take the starch out of poker-faced, puffed-up Ken Bates. The next time he seeks to defend his foppish wilting gaggle of utterly-utterly's by attacking the burning torch of truth that is this column, I shall infiltrate his Port Merion-style Holiday Village soccer park and, under cover of night, set to work with the weed-killer. Then, as daylight dawns upon his garish stadium, one word will be righteously burned into the very pitch itself . . . Moolango!