Football Aid

I will fulfil a lifetime's ambition on Monday, when I take to the field at The Valley for Football Aid.

The match will kick off at an ungodly 9.30am presumably on police advice, to discourage players from drinking heavily before the game.

Given the distance I live from the stadium and the rush-hour traffic, I'm tempted to stay overnight in the vicinity.

I'm not a good footballer. Any personal glimpses of sporting excellence tend to occur in the more civilised surroundings of a tennis court or golf course.

Moreover, the bulk of my footballing appearances have occurred in goal where I earned the nickname 'The Cat'.

Although I'd like to think my teammates were referring to my lightning reflexes, I think in truth it was my tendency to appear asleep when a cross came in.

Naturally therefore, I bid for the striker's position on Monday.

It was the most expensive option, but still considerably below where I would have valued the experience so everyone's a winner.

I've had my playing style described as a cross between two strikers with a rich Charlton legacy, Derek Hales and Jimmy Trotter (ie. Derek Trotter).

I'm pretty fit in a long-distance running kind of way, but if I begin to tire I will motivate myself by repeating a mantra in my head...."I'm a month younger than Nicky Forster....I'm a month younger than Nicky Forster."

In the unlikely event that I score, I'm hoping it will be at the Jimmy Seed Stand end where I can imagine 3,000 Millwall fans baying for my blood, and casually flick them the V-sign.

The game usually involves a couple of ex-Charlton 'legends' too, the likes of Eddie Youds and Simon Webster in prior years for example.

Rumours that both saw the teamsheet and decided they didn't fancy marking me, have yet to be confirmed.

Based on recent events however, no doubt if no suitable legends can be found in time, the club will scramble to bring someone in from another club on a short-term loan.

The West Stand will be full of WAGs meanwhile, although my own wife has strangely chosen not to be present (she gets too nervous apparently).

My fellow players can rest assured however, that regardless of how much their loved ones may cast admiring glances at the free-scoring player in the no.9 shirt, I have no intention of imitating John Terry.