Final whistle blowing on my inglorious footy career

Centre forwards of the world rejoice.

I'm done.

With one hefty swing of my right leg and one apple crumble of the left, my football days are over.

The knee's gone – again. And after five operations (soon to be six, I fear) who'd have me now?

Ipswich? Thanks for asking, Mick. But you'd be better off with John de Wolf at the moment.

Depending on the time of day, maybe even Roger Johnson. Maybe not.

Normally, I just write like a young Forrest Gump – now I'm walking like him too.

Run Forrest, run?

Sorry, I can't; if life is like a box of chocolates, I just chewed on something the cat dropped in by mistake.

Between sympathetic pats on the back and hilarious shouts of 'CRIPPLE!', friends say I had a good run – it was 1993 against the Morris Man (that's a pub, not a bloke playing in clogs).

They still talk about me crossing the half way line to this day. Mainly because I got a nosebleed.

For years, opponents have cracked all the old gags about milk turning faster than me and made metallic cries of 'Caution! Fat Lad Reversing!' every time I ran backwards, accompanied by 'bleeping' noises.

Being a cross between Oscar Wilde and Tony Adams, I merely told them to 'bleep off' – then kicked the 'bleep' out of them at every opportunity.

Ahh, the beautiful game.

But, alas, tis the glue factory for me now.

They say your body tells you when it's time to pack up. Mine did in 1999, but I didn't listen.

It shouted loud and clear in 2003, but I kept going.

It screamed and begged me to stop in 2010, but – oh, no – I knew best, what with me being a doctor and all . . .

Now, it has taken the decision out of my hands before I end up like wheelchair-bound Joe from Family Guy.

Or, more likely, Brian Potter. "Jerreh! Change that headline, you girl!"

The knee hurts like hell. But not half as much as packing up.

All joking aside (There were jokes? – Ed) it's a sad passing as, like most middle-aged men, I haven't actually realised I'm a middle-aged man.

When I read stories of people in their mid-forties, it often fails to register that they are the same age as me. I see them as old. Knocking-on. Grown-ups.

Whereas me? In my mind, I'm just a (very) overgrown teenager, gambolling through life's pastures with the spirit of a spring lamb, blind to the slaughter ahead.

I genuinely wonder where my 30s went. I stare at the pop nostalgia column in Weekend and think 'that can't be right – 28 years since I got Into The Groove with that Madonna fan?'

That makes it 27 since I dumped her for mangling a Springsteen cassette.

She was gorgeous, but – come on – that's grounds for divorce, let alone a teenage break-up.

And now my glory days have passed me by in the wink of that young girl's eye.

I hoped when I got old I wouldn't sit around talking about them, but I probably will.

It'll be misty-eyed tales of 30-yard screamers, goal-line clearances, last-minute winners – and ankle taps the ref didn't spot.

Because the older I get . . . the better I was.