The OHAFC Vets made the long journey to Brentwood on Sunday morning hoping to emulate the accomplishment of the 1st XI less than 24 hours previously by eliminating tricky Essex opposition from a Cup competition.

The day began auspiciously enough with left-back Charlie Tweddle firing off texts to half the team asking if they had any boots or shin-pads he could borrow, helpfully reminding the team that he hadn't seen his boots since his last appearance for the team: in last year's final when those same boots connected sweetly to fire in the winning goal. For Eton.

The younger members of the old boys set off from Parsons Green and had barely driven 100 yards down the Kings Road when they caught sight of Dom McCarthy leaning against a lamppost like some third-rate, desperate lady of the night still touting for business.

Paul Molloy showed that his party the night before had done nothing to dull his sharpness, telling those present in Baker's LPG-fuelled BMW that 'there's that guy who plays for Lancing'. Er, no actually, there's that guy who plays for Harrow and will be part of the back four you're in later.

The state of the ground on arrival at the Old Brentwoods Club hinted at what lay in store for the visitors with the grass verges of the car park churned into channels of mud.

The chaos outside was too much for one rather thick-set gentleman who burst into the Harrow dressing room and enquired whether anybody owned a claret Fiesta. Butler, when asked if it was his, rather unhelpfully suggested his was more burgundy than claret, leaving the man to stare blankly at him for a few seconds before trying the dressing room next door.

In a cunning tactical ruse, employed just before sending his team out to do battle, skipper Wyn-Evans unveiled a rather unique incentive to performing strongly in the opening skirmishes: a box of fresh rum truffles, seasonally decorated to resemble miniature Christmas puddings. Molloy eyed the iced treats with suspicion, conscious that his blood alcohol levels were still bloated from the previous night's entertainment.

Meanwhile, Tweddle, having briefly warmed himself up on a nearby exercise bike, took a hesitant peek outside at the conditions through an open window and rather seriously informed the team that the pitch 'looks a bit muddy.'

On arriving at the pitch, it was clear that Twedds had been somewhat stingy in his description. A large stretch of uneven, cut up, clogging, wet mud lay before a gaggle of open-mouthed Harrovians. One by one they tentatively stepped across the whitewash to test their home for the next two hours. That is everyone except goalkeeper Jon Ingram, who was prevented from testing his penalty area by a large rope covering half the penalty area. 'Could be worth trying a lob at this end,' Tweddle amusingly suggested.

Just as referee Peter Spelman was about to blow his whistle requesting the captains trudge their way to the centre circle for the preliminaries, a familiar face appeared. Traipsing through the mud from an adjoining pitch it was webuyanycar.com's Employee of the Month, continuing his desperate quest: 'Anyone own a claret Fiesta?'

The team, knowing that even this guy must realise none of them had in the previous fifteen minutes since their last meeting gone out and bought a claret Fiesta somewhere, decided to keep quiet. As he carried on his merry way, now heading in the direction of the tennis courts, some acute observations were offered: 'His calves are bigger than my thighs,' said Lederman. 'He looks like he's just got off his boat,' said Tweddle, referencing his rather odd attire for a chilly, damp December morning of polo shirt, shorts and deck shoes.

'Can we please forget about the bloody claret Fiesta bloke?' Wyn-Evans pleaded as he sought to concentrate minds ready for the off. Clearly his mind was the one that needed concentrating most however, as with no sun, no wind, no slope and mud everywhere, he made the somewhat bizarre choice to change ends on winning the toss. Brentwood captain Beale stared incredulously on hearing the decision, knowing full well that direction of play was likely to feature fairly low down on the list of deciding factors this day.

But maybe Harrow's leader did know something the others didn't, for within five minutes the visitors had hit the post through an Andy Butler prod, the makeshift striker coming agonisingly close to scoring for the first time since his last trip to Essex and the fateful quarter-final defeat to Chigwell four seasons ago.

No-one knew it then, but that effort was to be one of precisely two highlights in the first half for a poor Harrow display. The second 'highlight' being a rather good cross from the left by Ed Thorn that unfortunately led to nothing.

Brentwood made light of the conditions and began passing and moving with confidence, leaving the black and white striped shirts chasing thin air. The hosts scored twice and probably should have had more, the back four of McCarthy, Molloy, Baddeley and Tweddle being constantly asked to produce last-ditch interceptions to prevent further clear-cut openings.

Back inside the sanctuary of the dressing room at half-time no-one was willing to put their hand into the rum truffle box for fear of inviting scorn. Such had been the slowness of most of Harrow's play, the addition of rum truffle mix seemed like an unnecessary additional handicap.

Wyn-Evans led from the front and stuffed one in his mouth but no-one followed. Just as well really, for upon finishing his petit fours the Harrow captain urged the team to make more use of 'the pace up front.' Some quizzical looks followed, Hoffen and Butler in particular looked stunned, fearing they were about to be substituted before then realising that in fact there were no substitutes. Surely he couldn't mean Harrow's pace up front?

Butler had had his one moment in the sun and fluffed his lines, meanwhile Hoffen had spent much of the first half running in the opposite direction to the ball or lying on the ground or screaming at both teammates and opponents alike. Sometimes he managed a combination of two or all three at once. But never had pace been a feature of any of his actions.

Thankfully for the few hardy spectators, the second half proved to be a much more entertaining affair than the first, despite the monsoon rains arriving earlier than usual from the sub-continent an hour into the game.

By this time Brentwood were four up, the fourth being a particularly well-taken strike from outside the box. But the rain appeared to awaken Harrow spirits and the side began to fight back - almost literally in Butler's case when he took offence to a late challenge from the hosts' left-back and informed him in no uncertain terms that he was a 'hostis humani generis' (look it up).

Heckles sufficiently raised, the visitors finally struck when Wyn-Evans rose to majestically head home a Lederman corner, the ball grazing the underside of the bar as it went in.

Brentwood were rattled, a cry of 'come on, let's be professional' was puzzlingly uttered, the thought that anyone on the pitch was a professional being utterly laughable.

What was even more laughable however was what happened next. With Harrow now in the ascendancy and about to score four more goals to win the game, Paul Molloy took centre stage, deciding that, in fact, he had no interest in seeing his team progress to the next round and so thumping the ball into the top corner (the stanchion, to be precise) of his own net from five yards out trying to effect a clearance. His teammates stared in puzzled amusement at what they had just witnessed, Molloy, as is his way, just giggled and looked sheepish.

A further Brentwood goal left the score at 6-1 with fifteen minutes remaining - 'not a cricket score, a tennis score' offered Butler, as if he was teaching a four year-old the basics of sports scoring systems.

Nevertheless, with everyone now sodden to the bone, the Harrovian spirit shone on and from nowhere they produced two fine goals, Lederman twice delivering long balls for Baker, who had been restricted by a groin injury picked up in the opening minutes, to first head, then shoot home.

Brentwood did finally snuff out hopes of a comeback with a seventh goal in the closing stages, Tweddle nearly rivalling Molloy for 'most stupid defensive error of the day' when he sliced the ball straight to their centre-forward on the edge of the box.

There was still time for one last bit of drama, when a non-eventful corner sent Hoffen into a bizarre frenzy of rage with the opposition goalkeeper and the petrified referee. 'He punched me in the throat! He punched me here!!'

The referee took the sensible option and ran away, Rupert now informing the goalkeeper that he would 'see him afterwards.'

Things got a little odd at this point, with the 'keeper replying that he would meet Rupert later that night, an invitation Ru didn't seem too keen to accept - possibly the thought of spending the afternoon and evening in Brentwood not something that had crossed his mind when he made his original offer.

Both agreed to leave it that they wouldn't, in fact, see each other again for a while, possibly ever. Unless of course the two teams draw each other again next year.

'Nemo auditor propriam turpitudinem allegans' muttered Butler darkly.

The final whistle was met with relief from all concerned, several Harrovians now barely able to lift their weary legs out of the mud and venture back towards the changing rooms.

One by one players said their goodbyes and filed out to make their long journeys home, the rum truffles sitting untouched and unwanted in their open box on the side - perhaps a fitting metaphor for the Harrow team on this sad day: a bunch of fat puddings in the wrong place at the wrong time.

'Anyone got a claret Fiesta?'

Oh sod off mate.