Sure enough there was a reddish tinge at one end of the white, cylindrical kitbag, making it appear like a glowing cigarette.I blame my subsequent act...on on being half asleep, and fully stupid.I jumped out of bed, grabbed the kitbag and rushed down the centre deck towards the doors which opened onto the landing. Bad move.The extra oxygen, forced into the kitbag by my precipitous gallop, caused the dull red glow to become a flame, and then an inferno.One onlooker later described the scene as if. The final whistle had just blown, ending a school football match which, at the risk of sounding big-headed, I had dominated. Everything had gone right for me; I scored four goals and basically controlled the game.After the match, as we marched off the quagmire of a pitch in search of a hot shower, our PE teacher, Mr Edwards, called me over and told me that two scouts wanted to speak to me.This wasn’t particularly unusual as scouts had been chasing me since I was nine years old, but my dad’s. More

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