Now, where can I score some nandrolone?

NOT BY nature a drugs-user, I have been wondering vaguely about the availability of these performance-enhancing products that we have been hearing so much about. It was a snooty athletics official from somewhere like Switzerland who set me thinking. Commenting on the allegations that the great sprinters Linford Christie and Merlene Ottey may have used the banned substance nandrolone to run faster, the blazered one pronounced knowingly that many athletes reaching the end of their careers found it difficult to let go. Hence the attraction of a little pharmacological assistance.

I heard this news with a lurch of recognition. How well I understand the problem which Linford and Merlene are said to have been facing at their grand old age of 39. Why the hell should we retire? We are in our prime. What do they want, these plump, bossy, life-denying officials? That we should just fade away, like losers?

Forgive the intemperate tone. This is the beginning of a difficult, demanding week of competition for me: tomorrow the team runs out for its first match of the season against the Charity Commission - no pushover, despite their name. Then, over the weekend, there's a major international against the old enemy, Italy.

There will be those who regard the behaviour of a middle-aged man jogging proudly on to a football pitch as unseemly and embarrassing. They will claim that it is psychologically unhealthy, that this state of denial can only end in tears and humiliation. Remember Lester Piggott, they'll say - he retired in his sixties, couldn't bear it and returned to the saddle for one last, disastrous season. Think of Chuck Berry, a genius who wrote some of the great rock songs of the late 20th century over a couple of weeks in the Fifties but who has kept on touring in his old age. Or Edward Heath, Marianne Faithfull, Lord Denning, or Mick and Keith. Why not follow the example of Paddy Ashdown, John Francome and EM Forster, men who had the sense and grace to get out before decline really set in and they made fools of themselves?

Forget it. Like all those stubborn non-retirers, I spit in the face of Father Time. Far from being psychologically unhealthy, that weekly 90 minutes of immature behaviour - running about, screaming, swearing and, an essential part of my game, falling over - is the perfect therapy session, during which everyday problems of life and work are laughably insignificant beside the urgent need to get the ball into the back of the opposition's net.

Occasionally, well-meaning friends suggest an alternative outlet, but none of them bears contemplation. Tennis? Too much control and skill needed, not enough scope for the enthusiastic, sharp-elbowed flailing about that is my forte. Golf? I'd die of boredom. Bowls? Bridge? No, even considering these things is like contemplating my own dotage.

Doubtless, the moment of unavoidable truth will arrive soon enough. Team- mates will mysteriously stop passing me the ball, leaving me stranded out on the wing like a spectator who has strayed on to the pitch. During one of our occasional games against a local school, the full absurdity of pursuing down the wing an opponent who is 30 years younger than me will become apparent. Once too often, when in full flight, I will catch sight of my own shadow and see an absurd, waddling figure, little arms pumping furiously, and realise that it is me, running from the inevitable.

Until then, there are games to play, balls to kick. Chest out, three lions on my shirt, I shall stand with the pride of English middle-aged manhood as the national anthems play before the big game against Italy. We may look a little battered, like football's answer to the Buena Vista Social Club - but at least we're not playing bowls.

Now, does anyone know where I can score for some of this nandrolone?