Are You A Football Hard Man?

By whispering “why did you call my mum a bike?” into their captain’s ear, then making a swift throat-slashing gesture.

Make direct eye contact with their biggest defender while wearing your ’game face’. It gives you a psychological edge.

A quick nod will suffice. We’re not here to make friends… or enemies.

Show off your skills with a few crisp passes and some lively runs down the channels.

By carving your initials in stud marks across a weakling’s chest like an evil Banksy.

Bundle over a few opposition midfielders with some ‘reducers’ – making sure you take just a little bit of the ball, too.

Check the shinpads, then jog to the bench to rehydrate and check the BBC Sport app.

Slip a rock into your sock and windmill into the melee roaring maniacally about RESPECT.

Steam in and separate the worst offenders, dragging your side’s hothead out of the mix and calming him down.

A vile smorgasbord of twisted nipples, Chinese burns, rabbit punches to the kidney and threats about maiming.

Firm-but-fair jostling with the odd elbow – it’s a contact sport, and I’m not going to be mucked about.

I don’t bother with any of that nonsense – especially if the oppo look a bit fighty.

Captain, The Big Man, Thor.

They just add a Y or O to the end of my surname, and sometimes call me “50p head”.

Mad Bob, History’s Biggest Monster, The Devil Wears Puma. All of which is said very quietly behind your back…

Leave quietly – then drive to the ref’s house and sit in a hedge outside wearing night vision equipment and stroking a very large knife.

I’ll be honest… angrily. I might lose my head and get involved in a bit of shouty, shove-y handbags.

Surprise – I’m not normally that kind of player. But there’s no point walking the disciplinary tightrope by protesting.

On a park bench – ruffled, confused, and wearing a woman’s coat. It must have been a big one.

In a comfy bed at home. Two Nurofen and I was right as rain.

In a secure unit at Rampton psychiatric hospital. What are you looking at?