I never really enjoy the Wildcard experience. I think that says a lot about me.

In fact, I’m convinced that if you want to analyse the character and outlook of an individual, force them to cock-up their initial Fantasy Premier League lineup and then make them play their Wildcard ahead of Gameweek 3.

Their reaction to the pressure and the events that follow in the next 48 hours will inform you whether you want to employ them/marry them/lend them your lawnmower.

I see the Wildcard as Fantasy Football’s version of Supermarket Sweep. I always feel suitably harried to stuff my squad trolley with goodies, doing my limited best to assess the merits of each “purchase” as I skirt around aisles.

It shouldn’t be this way. I have had some time to pour over statistics. I’ve taken in the potential price rises and falls to come and analysed fixtures to help set up the defence. I should feel ready for this moment.

Even so, whenever the Wildcard is dealt, I can never fight off this nagging feeling that I’ve slipped up somewhere. That amongst those 15 names there’s a trap I’ve missed and I’m going to be forced to field a makeshift defence or a budget option I’d earmarked purely as bench fodder.

Such scenarios shouldn’t be catastrophic but, when you’ve given yourself another chance to plan and reconstruct your squad, it’s more difficult to forgive yourself from making these errors. Particularly when the refresh comes just a few weeks after the original line-up is formed; I can’t allow myself to fail miserably twice in less than a month.

Of course, disappointment can loom almost immediately. The problem with the Wildcard is that it’s a window shop – anyone and everyone is fair game and so, by the time 11.45 comes around, I would have sifted through dozens of permutations and players.

Inevitably, amongst those players will be someone I elect to omit from my squad who will embark on an improbable blitz of points over the course of the next three days.

Like that 52-year-old welder from Worksop who just failed to hit 101 with six darts on Bullseye, I’ve this nagging feeling I’m about to be shown “what I could of won”. I fear that Granville will take on the guise of Jim Bowen in next week’s ScoutCast, presenting me with Matt Ritchie as that elusive speedboat.

I’m resigned to it: the Wildcard is not going to make my weekend, it’s going to ruin it.

Now, does anyone have a lawnmower I can borrow?