‘I’ll kill you’, he bellowed.

‘They’d work on that, first lesson.’

He’d got himself back in order by this time, but every instinct told him to hit until something broke. Maybe they train them that way, I don’t know. He told me to get fucked again, and I found this very boring,

‘Piss off, Matthews. I’ll tell the hostess you came over faint.’

He might have had another go; he pulled himself up off the floor as if that was in his mind, but just then another man appeared in the doorway and some party chatter flowed down the passage outside. Matthews finished adjusting his clothing. The new arrival laughed at the footballer’s buttoning and zipping: he was short and slight and not young, but laughing at ‘Sin bin’ didn’t seem to worry him.

Matthews made as if to bullock past us but I eased him into the door jamb. I could hold him there a second because I was sober and had my balance.

‘Are you driving?’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘No drunk leaves this party driving-that’s the rule.’

‘I lost my fuckin’ licence!’

I stepped back and let him lurch through and away. I followed him down the passage; he looked back a couple of times and I made ‘go’ motions with my hands and steered him towards the front door like a cattle dog. A few party persons stopped talking long enough to watch us, but they mostly regarded the incident as entertainment and their response was well-oiled laughter. Some of them would have laughed at a kneecapping.

The short man past his prime had followed me all the way.

‘A mess’, he said, as the door closed behind Matthews.

‘Yeah.’ I wasn’t feeling chatty; drunk athletes don’t cheer me up, and I turned away from him to try for a handful of peanuts or something. But he stuck close.

‘Are you a fan of the game?’

It was difficult to talk to him, because to do so I had to look down and when you’re looking down you’re not looking around, which was what I was being paid to do. Still, what’s worse than being at a party and having no one to talk to? I looked down.