today I'm sporting a manly scar (2 of them in fact) upon my forehead. I acheived this in the beastly pursuit of glory while playing table football in the pub on friday.
Such was may dedication to the game, and such was the tension in the air of the pressure cooker atmosphere in the arena at the time, that when The Hun scored a goal against your valiant heroes I doubled over in consternation and thwacked my bonce upon the edge of the table.
Blood was spilt and tears were shed by the worried supporters, but the physio wasn't needed and I fought on in the spirit of Terry Butcher and Paul Ince, and your valiant heroes held on for a glorious victory.
Now tell me your stories of sporting woe. Here's an example of the kind of thing i want to hear about: