RECREATIVO 3-1 Lyric Celtic 20.11.11.

The signs in the bird entrails on Hackney's mean streets weren't good. Three weeks of staying up late, custard and Resident Evil are perhaps not the best preparation for facing the league leaders and goal machine that are Lyric. A foggy cold morning, beached leaves like unponded goldfish gasping their last. Or tree dandruff. The mellow season really is upon us; and to misquote Woody Allen, the trouble with mellow is that next thing you know you're rotting.

The whiff of a season about to putrefy became the stench of certainty as, trying vainly to hide behind our net, we eyed 15 giants in Celtic hoops stride pitchward preparing to claim their treasure. Mantrap handshakes from hands attached to arms the size of tree trunks whose heads presumably had a good view of the blue sky above the low-lying cloud across Hackney Marshes.

Which Reccy shall we be today? Spring lambs or dozy winter-fat badgers?

Badgers - at least for a bit. Lyric were strong in the tackle, first to the ball and very tall, except the one with the moustache who was normal height. Our attempts to outwit them with a brilliant new routine of running slowly and kicking the air didn't work as well as expected. The ball is in our net after 15 mins and Jimmy sinks to his knees in an impressive re-enactment of Edvard Munch's The Cry - despairing hands clutching (or covering up) fashionable sideburns. The nihilists among us consider wrapping ourselves in blankets of doom and snuggling up in the comfort zone of inevitable defeat.

But this is New Recreativo. Banished from our constitution is Clause 4 - the one that said every time you go one down you have to let in at least 4 more. Now, instead of doom blankets, we don the lambswool pashminas of hope. And with the sun burning off the last of the November mist we feel all frisky again. Abandoned is our tactic of the first 35 minutes, which consisted mainly of aiming the ball at the heads of the opposition defence 50 yards away - presumably on the basis that sooner or later they'd get brain damage and start wondering around like extras from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, at which point we'd disguise the ball as a couple of good-time girls and sneak it into their net. Instead we try kicking the ball to each other. And 10 minutes from half time Joe Haley lets one fly over cuckoo's nest - a glorious 30 yard free kick schwoooming past the despairing hands of Lyric's keeper. Schwooom.

A couple of brilliant tactical changes from Recreativo at half time put us firmly under the cosh again. The ref, apparently full of remorse at giving us all the free kicks in the first half, and hellbent on making his peace with his reffy god, awards all the free kicks in the second half to the team from south of the river. Whatever, his internal struggle keeps both sides on their toes, guessing what today's rules are.

Lyric's scud missiles into our box must surely breach our brave home guard at some point. But somehow they don't. They hit the post, the keeper, the bar, the air just above the bar, the air just to the side of the post. But not the air between the posts, which under Fifa rules is the bit of air the ball has to hit to be considered a goal.

In contrast, our new strategy of passing to each other begins to work surprisingly well. Ben, cutting in from the corner, kicks the ball quite hard in the direction of the goal to see a defender divert it beyond the despairing hands of Lyric's keeper. More cloud-based activity in our goal mouth produces nothing of more lasting bother than some harsh words from the enemy mostly aimed at their own misfortune. And suddenly the returning Dunthorne sets Gayle off running (like the wind) down the right and firing low past the despairing hands of Lyric's keeper.

In recent years this fixture has proved a turning point in our fortunes. Last year, just for example, we went 6 games unbeaten before playing Lyric, then 7 without a win. As the marsh mist rolled back onto the marshes like a retractable roof being de-retracted at a ground where they have a retractable roof, we wandered around like extras from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on a fishing trip. Trying to remember what it's like to lose (we can live quite happily without being reminded, thank you.) Lyric's keeper meanwhile went off to see a motiovational spiritualist about his hands...

Team: Joe Grubb, Jimmy Lloyd, Mario Pisano, Joao Spinola, Adam Bradbury, Max Bland, Joe Dunthorne, Ben Chambers, Chris Chambers, Dan Hare, Joe Haley, Aaron Gayle, Liam Greenaway, Umar Ba.