I have always wanted to tell a story. My story. It’s nothing to get you on the edge of your seat but it is worth telling as it is my story.

First off, I will kick off with my name. It is Alhagie Lameen Barrow. I know what you’re thinking. How could this old, wrinkled, on-the-home-stretch Caucasian have a name like Alhagie Lameen Barrow? Either he is taking too much of his medication or, as my grandson Kemo would put it, he is reaching.

With Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)

‘You think we could pull this off?’ Jermaine asked, tugging some more at the Compton hat on his head. ‘Are my braids showing?’

Tapha looked at him.

‘Yeah, we will pull it off for sure if you take that I’m-heading-for-the-chair look off your face. It is not a jailable offence last I checked…’

‘And when was the last you checked?’

Tapha sighed.

With Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)

‘Can I?’

There was a devilish glint in Jermaine’s eyes tinged with mischief Tapha has never seen before.

‘If you don’t trust your throw prowess, use your good foot,’ he replied softly so as not to scare off the would-be victim.

Jermaine nodded, crept stealthily up to a crouching cat washing itself, totally oblivious to what was about to take place.

One minute, it was washing its right paw; a split second later it was levitated in the air gravitated by Jermaine’s right foot.

Enough legroom in there? This van looks very anti-height from where I’m standing,’ Jermaine remarked as a beige-coloured Toyota Corolla van pulled up, a side-angled portrait of a turban-clad man, piercing eyes looking right ahead, white Islamic beard which Jermaine reckons gives him a holy, prophetic look, occupied the top right windscreen.