It was truly a bizarre experience, and yet it all started out as a normal trip out to play football with the lads at Pakerhat. Sunday tends to be the best day to play as the better players come along, as opposed to the young lads and talentless locals who try their hearts out with random results. The difference this time though was that the team I play with had a proper game against some other local team, and they wanted me to play up front for them. I was keen to play so went along not suspecting anything in particular.

The first clue that something was up came when there was no one at the school playing field where we usually play. Enquiries with a local established that they were playing at a pitch in a different village further down the road we'd come down. Then it occurred to me that they were playing on the pitch where I'd seen a big game being played some weeks ago (remember - ferocious tackling, poor refereeing and electricity cables overhead?). And so it proved to be, even down to the big crowd (3 deep all around the pitch) and a commentator gibbering over a cheap tanoid system.

We were late leaving the office after an almost entirely fruitless day of waiting for the power to come back on, so by the time we arrived the game had already started. It took us a few minutes to locate the subs bench and understand if I'd get a game, and then I had to find a spare piece of dry land to warm up on. Not as easy as it sounds believe me, as between the crowds of men watching the game, the road and the surrounding paddy fields, all I had left was a school and it's playground. So in I went, with my team shirt tucked under my arm, and after a few minutes of jogging and stretching (all under the uncomprehending gaze of a steadily increasing crowd of locals) I went back to the pitch to discover that it was now half time and I was on! Only I wasn't as I was told to change shirts. Apparently the first one wasn't quite good enough so I had to give it back and take another. I took 30 seconds to get the damn thing over my head (I'm not really the same size as your average Bangladeshi you see), and by the end even some of the crowd were laughing with me.

I got a small briefing from the skipper, who informed me that we were 1 goal up and that the master plan for the second half was to drop back and defend. Oh brilliant, like that tactic worked so well for England at Euro 2004 this summer?! I also asked if the opposition were any good. All he said was that they were small, which is perfect for the no-nonsense style of forward play I adopt. I'll cut to the chase straight away and say it wasn't much of a game of football, but it was certainly a good spectacle. The challenges were at best committed and clumsy, at worst outright attempts to hurt people. After the 3rd time a central defender clattered into the back of me I walk into him, pointed an accusing finger and said (in English I'm afraid) "if I feel you again I WILL kill you". This was after the second challenge when he was all studs at knee height, and then I'd kicked him back to the ground. The crowd loved that - thought it was highly amusing. I was more concerned with establishing some basic rules of hand-to-hand combat on a football pitch.

While all this was happening on the pitch, the local commentator was still chatting away, presumably for the few blind supporters present as everyone else was no more than 2 metres from the touch line and could see exactly what was going on. After a few minutes I slowly realised that he was saying my name, but not just my name. Someone had told him who the only foreigner playing was, but they hadn't done a very precise job as he kept on saying "John Kerry". I kid you not. For 40 minutes of football I was the Democrat party's presidential candidate. How wrong can you be?!

Need I mention that the referring was just appalling? After one particularly blatant piece of holding in the penalty area the opposition surrounded and harassed the man for a good 5 minutes before play finally resumed. As the teams got back into position one of the opposition midfielders said to me "no licence!", as if he was expecting this piece of inter-village warfare to be under the strict control of a FIFA accredited official. The penalty wasn't awarded by the way, but they did get one later for one of the worst, and I use the term loosely, tackles, I've seen in a long time. Our goalie, who I'd never set eyes on before, pulled off an amazing save and that was it. We'd scored a second goal earlier on, and yours truly had missed an absolute sitter with only the keeper to beat, so in the end we won 2-0.

As soon as the final whistle went, it was like the scenes that accompany England winning the 6 Nations Grand Slam at Twickenham. The crowd surged onto the pitch... and surrounded ME! My mind was still thinking about football and our victory, so I didn't really take it all in immediately. But seriously, I was mobbed by tens if not hundreds of boys and young men! For 40 minutes that Sunday early evening I was David Beckham, and while it was all a bit surreal at the time I wouldn't want that every time I kick a ball. I'd like to think that they were just curious about seeing a foreigner playing in a local football match, but what if they really did believe I was John Kerry...?