I am a shocking loser. Just ask my old squash partners at Chilwell Olympia. I used to play there every Thursday afternoon when I was at Forest.

You can't even go for a stroll for a carton of milk 48 hours before a game these days without asking permission of the fitness trainer and the manager.

The Gaffer loved squash though and it was never a problem in those days.

I was a pretty good squash player. I thought about taking it up before football and I must have been half decent because the Gaffer had me play with him at Trent Bridge squash club on a regular basis.

But I lost count of the number of racquets I smashed up in anger on the back wall because I had lost a poxy game of squash to a mate! But that was the way I had been brought up. The Gaffer always drilled it into us that if you are 3-0 up, go 4-0 up and 5-0 up. Never let up. Never take the foot off the pedal. That is a weakness. Destroy them, grind them into the dirt.

Once the gaffer discovered I played squash, that was it. He had me earmarked as his new playing partner and that might sound a privilege, but let me assure you, it was not.

The way it would work was fairly simple. He would let me go down to training and complete virtually the whole session and then, as regular as clockwork, ten minutes before everyone was allowed to pack up for the day and return to the ground, an apprentice would come jogging over in my direction and utter the immortal words 'you're playing squash with the Gaffer in ten minutes'.

I used to have to sprint back up the banks of the Trent and get back to the dressing rooms in double-quick time.

The best I could hope for was to rub most of the mud off my legs and filthy training kit, before grabbing my squash gear and shifting my backside to the front of the ground where the Mercedes would be running and he would be looking at his watch.

He would drive us over there and we would be straight on the court, which was where the fun began!

Despite always complaining about having a dodgy knee, he was a bloody good sportsman and loved squash and tennis, but I was better than him.

He knew it and I knew it, but I don't think I ever won a game! It was not that I was some pathetic brown-nose who let him win in the vain hope that might curry favour and get me in the first team. He was a terrible cheat and hated losing.

Whenever I was attempting to manoeuvre myself towards the T and into the optimum position to make my next shot, I would somehow bump into this immovable object that went by the name of Clough.

Or he would play his shot and accidently set up a personal road block on the exact route I needed to take to continue the rally. 'Would you like that point again son?' was his usual response when that occurred.

There was no such thing as a let when he was playing squash. Effectively I was left apologising for running into his racquet with my teeth and the point was his!

It was a ritual humiliation I endured for an hour a couple of times a week. We had some great games and battles, but whenever it got to key points, or tight, I knew the offer of replaying the point was never far away.

Cheating? He would have called it gamesmanship and he hated losing, especially to a carpet fitter.