“Get out of my house and don’t come back again until you can prove you’re a real man” she shouted. I stared longingly as I watched my now ex-girlfriend hurl all of my worldly belongings out on to the front lawn of the house, which up until an hour ago, we used to share.

“I never want to see you again” she whaled, slamming the front door of our Victorian style semi-detached home so ferociously, that it nearly came off it’s hinges.

I sighed ruefully as I staggered around our overgrown lawn, attempting to gather my possessions and in-turn, abdicating any last shreds of dignity I had left.

Perhaps I should fill you in; my name is Jonathan and I am in my early twenties. I’d never been a particularly driven person and was simply content to coast through life, putting in the bare minimum of effort and hoping that one day, the waves of fortune would turn in my favour and deliver some meaning to my listless existence.

However, as I crawled around staring into the mud-sodden earth, I wasn’t exactly full of optimism. But still, as the night drew in and the Autumnal grey sky cascaded into darkness, I began to wander where it had all gone wrong…

After leaving school at the age of sixteen, I believed that I had been destined for greatness. A fanatical football fan; I hoped to follow in the footsteps of ‘the greats’ - Brian Clough, Bill Shankly and Alf Ramsey and leave an indelible mark on the footballing world.

Since the age of six, I had been transfixed by the football phenomenon. Growing up in my native Sheffield; I had witnessed the passion of the fans; the heat of the Steel City derbies; the joy, the despair, the agony, the delirium…

After watching my beloved Sheffield Wednesday topple our arch rivals United to gain a place at Wembley in the early nineties, I had decided on the spot what I wanted to do with my life. As I turned and celebrated with my late father, I whispered in his ear “One day I will play for Wednesday”. My father lifted me up in his arms and with a gleeful smile on his face replied “Sure you will son… you will be the next David Hirst, mark my words”.

From that day on I lived and breathed football; it didn’t matter if it was in the playground, out on the street or on the fields behind the family home - I was never happier than when I had a ball at my feet.

Ten years on and reality had set in, despite the fact I had recently passed my UEFA coaching badges, no football club wanted to take a chance on a rookie manager. Why would they? What could I offer them that someone else couldn’t?

Disgruntled and disheartened by the hand that life had dealt me, I sought refuge with an unsavoury crowd and quickly descended into a world of drugs, sex and, as the old cliché goes - rock and roll.

My friends James and Brad were part of a rock band called The Hero Inies. Every week I would join them as they toured the ‘dive’ bars of Yorkshire; playing their music, hoping to get their big break… God, how I envied their optimism.

By this stage, I had become engulfed by the whole rock and roll lifestyle; I had begun taking mind bending drugs - I was in a really unhappy place. I lurched from one disastrous relationship to another, as I continued upon my whirlwind of self-destruction.

That was until, I met Sonia - the mother of my darling son, Dylan. Sonia wasn’t just another groupie, this girl had something about her, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but I was intrigued.

We began dating, fell in love, had a son. But that wasn’t good enough for good old Jonathan, oh no - true to form - I ruined everything with my reckless drinking and persistent drug taking. I can’t blame poor Sonia for throwing me out. Dylan deserved a father he could rely on, not one that would fob him off at every opportunity; but I am ashamed to say that I fall into the latter category.

And so there I was… a crunched up heap of clothes under one arm, a cigarette in my hand - twenty-three years old; homeless, loveless, destitute. I stood outside the gates of the place I used to call home and stared out longingly into the night sky, as the cool August breeze whipped across my face.

‘There’s only one job for it’ I said to myself, ‘to the pub’ I exclaimed with a tragically gleeful intonation. I walked purposefully towards my regular watering-hole, the ‘Golden Ark’, I trudged through the door and was greeted by the landlady, Barbara. “So what’ll it be Jonathan, pint of lager?”, I nodded my head without uttering a word before stumbling over to a table to wallow in my own self pity.

I sat perched on my bar stool nursing my drink before heading over to the jukebox, as I passed, I accidentally nudged a shaven-headed man playing pool. “Oi d**khead, what the f**k do you think your playing at?!” he bawled as the pub fell silent. “Sorry mate” I murmured, trying to ignore the situation.

As I lurched over to the jukebox and began placing the last few scraps of change I had into the machine, I felt a tap on my shoulder, followed by the almightiest of wallops and then… darkness.

I regained my senses a couple of hours later and as I sluggishly tried to regain my footing, I gazed through starry eyes at a silhouetted figure. “Here mate” came a voice “Here mate, grab my hand, your alright now”. I staggered to feet and as I regain my focus, I saw a middle aged man standing in front of me.

“The names Deej” he quipped in a broad Scottish accent… “Deej McBastard”. I tried to stifle my sniggers as I introduced myself, “Jonathan” I replied hesitantly… “Jonathan Wolstenholme”.

Deej pulled me to my feet before continuing “Well Jonathan, you look like your in a right old state at the moment… what are you drinking?” he chortled with a twinkle in his eye. “Erm.. Becks” I replied without a second thought.

I managed to compose myself as I perched myself precariously on a bar stool; swaying from side to side. Deej returned from the bar and smiled warmly as he placed a fresh pint in front of me. “So what’s your story Jonathan? You don’t see many men washed up in the gutter nowadays, I’m sure it’s a tale of broken promises and heartbreak, enlighten me…”

I was a little taken back by Deej’s forthright manner, but something about him made me feel like opening up. So over the course of the next few hours I divulged every detail of my torrid existence to this man I had only just met; from heartbreak to even more heartbreak, my ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and all the messy bits in-between.

The Scotsmen’s ear remained ever sympathetic and once I had finished explaining how Sonia had thrown me out, he curiously replied “So you have your UEFA Pro License?”. Through a squinted eye and booze addled voice I managed to muster “Yeess”.

“Well then Jonathan, you could well be the man I am looking for, come and see me tomorrow at my office” he said in his quirky accent, passing me a folded up piece of paper.

“I could well be the answer to all of your problems”. Without another word, Deej stood up from his chair and walked out of the bar… I sat there open-mouthed and confused, before motionlessly slipping off my chair and falling face first onto the floor.