A day in the life of... Michael Oliver

7.32am: Michael Oliver hears the doorbell ring and it’s the grocery delivery man there to give him his weekly shopping. He goes through the receipt and all seems OK, until it’s pointed out to him that they’ve had to substitute some olive oil for some rapeseed oil. Oliver’s allergic to that, but feels blood rushing to his cheeks when he’s asked if the substitution is a problem. He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue. He knows it isn’t a big deal. He can see himself in his head, saying, “Ah, sorry, I’m allergic.” But he can’t do it; he can’t handle the small talk. “Sure, mate, fine by me,” and he grabs the bags to take them inside a little too quickly.

7.56am: Having put his shopping away, he decides he has to get some olive oil before his wife notices that he’s got the wrong thing. Walking to the local cornershop, he reckons, will be an easy way to warm up for the match later. He picks up a newspaper, a pint of milk too, and eventually finds the olive oil. It’s a little cloudy, and he thinks about asking for one from the storeroom which is a bit newer. But he can’t quite do it; he can’t handle putting pressure on someone, however simple the social situation is. Handing over a tenner, he gets two pounds in change back and realises the girl behind the corner has mistakenly assumed he needed change for a fiver.

He looks into his hand, where the change is, and back at the girl. He hopes that will prompt her. He does it again, back to the change, back at the girl. She smiles, slightly awkwardly, perhaps with a hint of apprehension, not understanding what his point is. “Is everything OK?” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Thanks.”

11.02am: Oliver checks into his hotel ahead of the game. He gets into the room and puts down his bags in a little bit of a hurry. He double checks that all his equipment to referee the game later is there, making sure there’s two whistles and a full kit. In his rush to get everything ready, it only occurs to him after 45 minutes that he’s been put in the wrong room. He’d booked a room with a window facing out onto the street, but the view he has is a grimy courtyard wall a few yards away.

12:15pm: By this time he has already unpacked and got his toothbrush and toothpaste aligned at right angles in the bathroom. He reckons it’s probably more hassle than it’s worth and wonders if he could get a bit of a refund with an email tomorrow. He knows he won’t, it’s only £20.

12:23pm: He goes across the road from the restaurant for a pizza before the game. It’s not far to the Etihad by taxi, so he’s got plenty of time, as long as he mentions that he’s in a bit of a hurry when he orders the pizza, just a simple margarita. He tries to say that he needs it as quickly as possible, but can’t catch the waiter’s eye when he abruptly turns away to pass on his order. When the waiter brings over his sparkling water, he knows it’s the perfect opportunity to mention that he needs it quickly, and he can almost physically feel the chance slipping out of his hands to do so as he struggles to actually ask for something.

2:40pm: He arrives at the stadium and makes his way to the ref’s room. He knows his way, having been there plenty of times, and is miffed to see that, still, they have the name on the front, on a laminated strip, for “Mr Oliver Michael.” It’s been going on for four years. Four years and he still can’t actually tell someone when something is wrong, even if there’s barely any chance of getting the other person upset or in trouble.

3.42pm: Oliver changes into his kit, ready for the match. He steels himself in the mirror and stares at his reflection for a full five minutes. He repeats a refrain in his head. “Be strong, be decisive.”

“Be strong, be decisive.”

“Be strong, be decisive.”

4.40pm: Oliver sees Marcus Rashford dart inside Martin Demichelis, just inside the box. He sees Rashford go down after Demichelis closes in. That’s it, he thinks. This is my chance. The arm is ready to point out, the hand is ready to bring the whistle to his mouth and... nothing.

“Goal kick, lads. No, away, away. Goal kick.”