#no pot-bellied drunkard screaming football chants over here

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Your boyfriend. A military-led fiend. A once-devoted fan of football-turned-local-footballer who had dreams of becoming a professional in the field when he grew up in West Ham - though not the sort of field he now calls his second home - whose dreams were tainted with insecurity when two older boys in Year 10, shoved him face-down into the astro-turf during a lunchtime game, bullying him for his smaller size and slight stature. (Poor boy, he was only in Year 7).

The same Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, who, after his growth spurt in Year 9, during which his voice dropped, he grew a number of inches taller and built up the necessary muscle - having not yet given up on football - promised instead to rid the world of such patronising filth, through whatever means, eventually joining the Special Air Service to do just that.

The same Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, who, during his time off, ardently tells you time and time again - though you listen with as much enthusiam every time - of the event in which he came back to London a few years back after a mission, stopped off at Tesco to grab a meal deal before seeing his mother, only to spot, outside in the car park, the flashing blues and twos and wailing siren of a police car and, in a pair of handcuffs against the copper's door panel, the disgruntled faces of two of the boys who'd committed his face to faux-dirt all of those years ago, now men, if they could even be called that - ready to be whisked away to Ilford Police Station and charged with theft of a motor vehicle.

The same Kyle "Gaz" Garrick who gets equally as excited as the kids in the park to show you how well he can still shoot a ball into the net, having never lost his spark for athletics - of course he always gets it in from whatever angle - exclaiming "babe", "baby", "babe, watch", "babe, I'm gonna send it", and "love, you're not watching", relentlessly, until you finally look up from your book to watch a very sweaty, very pleased Kyle score a goal, yell with delight "get in!" then complete a victory lap to end at your picnic blanket for the purpose of placing a breathless kiss on your lips.

(The same Kyle who, late at night, in a tired daze with his lips tucked into your neck, will grumble against your skin, "you know, I was actually almost a professional footballer," just in case you might ever question his ability on the field).

(You'll believe him - it makes him too happy.)

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