was founded after a chance meeting in a Manchester hotspot during a Marillion concert.

John Mellor sat at the bar with his customary banana daiquiri revising for his final medical exams. He slowly flipped through the gynaecological journal while humming 'Kayleigh' as the band reached the end of its set. Simultaneously, Mick Belford, on a print engineers bonding evening, leant across the bar and ordered the usual pint of heavy and 'one for the lady'. After the barman asked each lady at the bar if they would join Mick for a drink, John, living on the meagre wages of a trainee, volunteered his services and history had begun. John put down his Mayfair and reclined seductively against the bar.

"Why the number 10 shirt?" he asked.
"God. Ingram. Who else?"

Two hours later and half a dozen screwdrivers each, the new friends had fixed the barstool. Mick talked eloquently of the South and John found himself being drawn into a picture of sweeping sands, tree lined boulevards and whelks. Another two hours passed and there stood John at Chorlton Street bus station. It was now 5.30am and cold. After a couple of Brufen to warm the toes and having drafted his final dissertation and sending it to the hospital, John boarded the National Express to 'The South'.

As the theme to Midnight Cowboy played through the crackling speaker, John smiled through the misty window and waved goodbye to the sprawling city. "Green fields here I come," he thought to himself. A dishevelled character sat across from him. John tried to sleep but the grunting, odorous example on his right made this impossible so John amused himself by writing an imaginary paper on him. Eventually the dribbling mess awoke and hacked a greenie on to the floor.

"Hello mate", he offered, "my names Steve."

John tried to ignore him but he was intrigued by the redness and he marvelled at how this man must survive potentially lethally high blood pressure. And so the journey of 36 hours slowly passed. It was in fact only about 5 hours but as we all know now, when Steve is around it seems a long time. John managed to lose his new friend at Southend bus station but it was inevitable that he would once again meet him in the future.

It never occurred to him that it would be in 10 minutes time when, wandering lost in a new town, John bumped into him again talking hopefully to strangers in York Road. By this time however, Steve had been joined by a small elf whose approach of, "I have a lovely little Orion," seemed to heighten Steves anticipation. Their kind offer of a bed for the night was an offer that John couldn't refuse and he gladly followed them home. He slept well that night and as he awoke the following morning he felt full of hope for his future. As he pulled the twigs and grass from his hair, he looked around himself and marvelled at how sleeping in a bush was never an option in Manchester.

"Open Space." He said aloud.
"What?" murmured the bush.
"Shit, I forgot about them" thought John

But this was the field of dreams. Where men could be men. Where hearts were broken. Where heroes would stand. Where he would get regularly pissed. Where he would get even more regularly pissed off. This was.....Eastwoodbury Lane!

John secured himself a place in the halls of residence and a quiet job in Southend hospital. Two whole days passed and then came the knock on the door. A man entered looking forlornly, almost embarrassed at the floor.

"Doctor. I have a rash," said the pathetic figure before him.
"Let me have a look Mr. Goodge. I am sure it's nothing" said John reassuringly.
"I think you are chaffed" he said. "What have you been doing recently?"
"Keep ups" said Mr.Goodge.
"How many did you do?"
"3."
"Anything else?"
"Well I was watching a video of God...." began Goodge.
"Who? Ingram?" interrupted Mellor. "You know him?"
"No I want to be him" replied Goodge.
"Rub this cream on 5 times a day and come back in a week" suggested John.
"Will it make it better?" asked the sad man.
"No. Just a little more accurate" was his reply.

Inadvertently, Mellor now had met nearly the whole squad. The following Sunday, during a stroll through Hamlet Court Road, Mellor recognised a familiar face. "Here let me help you, I am a doctor." And he lifted Belford back into the saddle.
"Do I know you?" asked Mick.
"Marillion!!" beamed John.
"Nope, never heard of you." Said the damp specimen, and he rode off gathering speed towards another pub.

John never did understand why he ever recruited such a band of losers but over the next year or so his numbers increased. Chaz, from the mission. The Saunders brothers from the planet Mars. The Wood brothers from Dartmoor. Jacobs from Stoke Mandeville and Mason from Afghanistan to name but a few.

And so, the legend that is began.

A group of nobodies that never communicate, say a friendly word, pass or, more importantly....win.

But this is John's Zeus and that long journey from the North was worth it. This was his Holy Grail although he didn't know it.

And if you were to ask John if he had any regrets? His only answer would be...."I should never have bought that shite Orion on my first night in Essex from that fat bastard midget in Shoebury!