This year, for reasons still unknown, I decided to take my annual sojourn to Spain's Costa Blanca in time to miss the last two weeks of the cricket season. Not the greatest piece of planning on my part I accept, but with a healthy lead under our belts I was quietly confident of triumphantly raising a glass of bubbly from afar. Devoid of any telecommunications device I remained calm and collected and, courtesy of my host, logged onto Nigel Stockley's trusty League website. With our game in hand rained off the day before, 'Title race goes to the last weekend' was not a headline I was hoping to see.

Never mind, just one win on the final weekend and it's all over. The following Saturday I duly found myself in one of the Costa Blanca's many British owned hostelries. I don't believe for a minute that I fit the profile of a typical British tourist, however I must admit the Costa Blanca has a knack of squeezing me dry of any semblance of local culture. Paella, Sangria and Flamenco soon capitulated in the wake of Sky Sports, Sun Newspapers and Soap Operas.

Luckily the bar I was in had an internet terminal. At 10.30pm (9.30 UK time), after a tense couple of hours, I made my way, Euro in hand, to the Internet Zone, only to find that I had been beaten to it by a spotty youth engrossed in his Face Book site. A quick glance over his shoulder and my suspicions were to be confirmed; this was no brain surgeon. The perfectly acceptable word 'for' was being routinely substituted for a '4' and so on and so forth. I gave it another half hour only to find the oily tic had not moved. In fairness to him, my polite request for a quick check of the League Website was met with an equally polite answer in the affirmative. 'Hassy slip up again' was all the information I needed.

On the final Sunday I could stand the tension no longer and, using my host's land line, phoned the club in the early evening. I was soon put out of my misery by Big Al who informed me that we had been stuffed and that Accy looked like winning. I know it's only a game and there are a lot more serious things happening in the world, but 'gutted' did feel an appropriate place to be for a while.

Thankfully my melancholy state didn't last for too long (about a pint of Estrella lager actually) before my thoughts turned to a story about George Best. Long after his playing career, he is reported to have been staying in the penthouse suite of a top London hotel. A Room Service waiter arrived to find George in bed sipping champagne, scattered over the floor were several thousand pounds won at the casino the night before and in the shower at the time was Mary Stavin, the then current Miss World. The waiter is then famously said; 'George, where did it all go wrong?'

And that is my view on the season. Go wrong? We embarked on a roller coaster journey and gave ourselves a fantastic chance, against all the odds, to win a league nobody gave us a prayer of winning. The fact that we failed at the final hurdle is a bitter pill to swallow but we have still had an unbelievable year. Just remember that 12 other clubs would happily have swapped places and lifted the Holland Cup.

Well done lads!