This isn’t the beautiful game that graces your eyes every weekend. There was no Rooney, no Messi and no Ronaldinho. This though was still the beautiful game.

Short of breath and dehydrated, it was a punishing day of five-a-side football for a group of work colleagues who are nearly all disgracefully unfit.

Enthusiastic and excited about the prospect of playing in a tournament, with the prize being the bragging rights of the company in my local area, training for the event had been rigorous.

Sitting in Trieste airport, I am beyond bored. I’ve finished my book, read the information pamphlet on Trieste airport, my ipod’s out of battery and I’m ploughing through a week old copy of the Daily Star for a second time, in the desperate hope that I missed an exciting article. My mind is numb with boredom.

Positioned away from the hustle and bustle of departures, I find a bench with a view of the adjoining buildings roof and once again I wearily turn to the Star in a vain attempt to pass the time. After ten minutes or so, a gentleman in a navy blue suit with a Tony Blair style open collared shirt perches on the bench two seats down from me and pretends to look through his suitcase in an attempt to find something to do.

After crossing and uncrossing his legs a couple of times, he leans over and asks in a soft American accent “have you finished with the soccer pages?” I pause for a moment and contemplate querying his use of the word soccer instead of football, but instead I just offer him a hollow smile and politely pass him the paper.

Despite having now lost my only form of entertainment (Joanne, 19 from Birmingham I miss you already) it does give me the opportunity to use my brain for the first time this morning and ponder the existence of the word soccer to describe a game that already has another name assigned to it.