The Middlesex Chess League Division Three is not the most exciting sports competition in the world. The venues range from a damp room in a neglected ex-servicemen's club to the upstairs of a dodgy pub on the border of Hackney and Islington. But a competitive league it is and the eight teams in it are as committed to promotion and a good cup run as are Arsenal and Manchester United in their sport.

It was with some trepidation that we (Hackney 2) went into last night's match against the might of Southgate, newly-promoted from Division Four. Being the captain of a chess team has no positives and a plethora of negatives. What the hell do you do when your top board pulls out half-an-hour before the clocks get ticking? Let's call him FF to protect his real identity from the sports hacks on the Sun. Now FF is one hell of player but he's got a few problems and on a team budget of £60 a year (one bag of chips each from the kebab shop next door to the boozer after each game), I don't have the luxury of getting him to a sports psychologist. Come to think of it, I don't have the luxury of even getting him to the bloody home games, about five minutes from his house.

So I have to ring up Matt, who is bringing his kid along anyway (international junior player and board four on our team), and tell him he's also playing. I mean, at this stage I just need a bloke who can lift a piece, even if he doesn't know where to put it. We mustn't default a board, or we'll lose points, that's my thinking. I half thought about the landlord's daughter, but that's not for this website.

The pub is heaving with the ladies' darts team and the Arsenal game is on TV (TVs actually, each of which fell off the back of a lorry, I assume). So we trudge upstairs to the function room, which, when we're not using it, probably doubles as a storeroom for nearly-new mobile phones. I'm sure David Beckham doesn't have to put the goalposts and nets up at the Bernebau. I have to put the pieces out, set the clocks and then go looking for scoresheets (usually to be found doubling for another purpose in the khazi).

My problem is that we have to win the match to stay in touch with King's Head, who we play next week. I've got four regulars out; each cried off with some stupid story about having to go out with the wife or having a ticket for 'Sound of Music' or some other nonsense. I've tried the Alex Ferguson blow-dryer on these guys and threatened to go to the press about their extra-curricular activities. It doesn't work. So I've got to conjure up 4.5 points out of eight to get the win with a second-string team and me having to play on board two. I'm not good enough for board two and I know the guy I'm playing. I've played him before, he sucks sweets and then crunches them while you are thinking. I don't just want to beat him, I want to introduce him to the landlord's pit-bull terrier.

Half an hour into the games, Diogo, our Brazilian on board four, has already lost. Well, he's still playing but he's going to lose. He's messed up the opening because he is thinking about that bloody girlfriend of his who he's wasting all his money on. Then we hear a roar from the pub. Half the guys go charging downstairs to see the replay of the goal, only to find the noise was from the ladies' darts team. Sylvia hit 120 with three arrows - unheard of.

Two hours into the games and we are at 2.5-2.5, two wins, two losses and a draw. I'm winning my game, all I have to do is hang on, I'm two pawns up, I just have to keep my nerve, not make a mistake and I'll win. They say blokes think about sex every six minutes, the entire cast of Baywatch could walk in naked covering their important parts with the front cover of the British Chess Magaine and I wouldn't look up. I'm too immersed in my game. Then the sweets start crunching, and I'm starting to make up for the 20 x 6 minutes thinking-about-sex I've lost and so start thinking about Diogo's girlfriend as well.

Three hours is nearly up, I'm going to win on time anyway and my position is safe for a win. I must win to secure an overall draw, a creditable performance in the circumstances. And Matt the stringer won. Maybe I'll play him again. I'll speak to his agent. We would have won the bloody match but for Diogo and the two other wasters who lost. Olly, the guy who works for the council and lives over a supermarket, blundered a piece and old Brian went gung-ho with a sacrifice which was about as sound as the average punt at the two-pound window at Kempton Park racecourse. I've told him not to do that kind of thing - he's going into the stocks.

The pub is still heaving, the ladies' darts team have won, Arsenal have won, we have drawn. Frankie from the first team (one hell of a strong player) shows our errant lads where they went wrong while I sign the team sheets with the opposing captain. I want to give the guys a team talk, but they are all completely pi**ed. I'm not going to sleep well - I have to decide who will play in the next game. We have to get promoted this season, we're too good to linger in the lower depths of the Middlesex League. Nothing, but nothing, is more important.