I had a dilemma tonight - or rather a trilemma.

• Should I go watch Jack play in the first ever Colt's game for which he had been selected? I've not missed a single match since he started playing 7 years ago ( crap school fixtures do not count) and he was playing with big boys this time
• Couldn't I just come straight home and savour the sights of our fund-raising efforts on the TV and, perchance, get a name check from the impossibly tiny Lord Levy?
• Or should I attend the Housing Bored (sic) Meeting?

The latter won out on account of the buffet they were serving immediately prior to the business in hand ( complete with broccoli quiche and stuffed mini-jacket potatoes) and the fact that our ballot returns were announced today. The People of North Dullshire turned out in their 67% droves to say "Yes!" As of now, we have a serious job in hand transferring over 10,000 rotting council-owned homes and an army of SUPER-TUPE staff to our embryonic organisation. The fact that the Press might be there to document the first ever official meeting of the former Shadow Bored did not enter into my head other than to chastise myself for choosing an extra 15 minutes in bed rather than washing my hair this morning.

Fortunately the news had yet to spread to the papparazzi. A hasty text message from Darbster informed me that tonight we had been beaten to the post by a story about neglected dustbins. And Jack didn't score a try but made some rather hard tackles and was very proud at how he'd managed to squash someone's head whilst the ref was otherwise occupied.

I'd also had a call that the Bleakerton Lions were seriously dischuffed because their generous and philanthropic donation had been under-rated and, unforgiveably, appropriated to the Bragg Lions, their neighbour rivals.

Tomorrow I shall be mostly eating humble pie, writing corrective editorials ( oh! They'd also said the whole Comedy Idea was Darbster's, and as much as I love him and am so not doing it for any glory or recognition whatsoever and that is the whole truth and nothing but the truth so I shan't be correcting that particular error but ensuring that those that should know, do!) examining imaginary stud marks on my precious son's back and serving him with a constant supply of ice packs for his uber-imagined war wounds, and wishing I'd snuck back and salvaged the remains of the buffet before heading to the pub with the Transfer Team to celebrate the result with a customary game of Killer Pool and Guess How Many Pants Adrian's Wearing Tonight.