The Summer Diary of a Football Fan
Monday
5pm: Turn off television after Championship play-off final. Stare at screen, forlornly. Contemplate emptiness. Blink several times and begin to notice surroundings for first time in months: furniture, carpet, wife.
6pm: Resolve to do something positive with close season this year. Decide to bring old, unwanted clothes to charity shop. Realise all clothes are "old, unwanted". Decide against charity shop idea due to conventional attitude to public nudity. ISPCA? Hate dogs. ISPCC? Hate children. Local Tidy Towns committee? Hay fever. Run marathon for charity? Athlete's foot.
7pm: Decide to rearrange CD collection in order of 'Genre'. Spend 30 minutes deciding whether Pink Floyd's Meddle belongs in 'Prog' or 'Psychedelia'. Conduct imaginary heated Late Review-style discussion on subject, which results in agreement with Tony Parsons on formation of new 'Progedelia' genre.
8pm: Having found no worthwhile other 'side' to personality, resort to League of Ireland action to fill football void. Feel pleased with self, rejoicing in old-fashioned values of domestic football, stripped of vacuous overinflated egos of Premiership.
8.15pm: Another misplaced pass clears Dalymount stand; yearn for vacuous overinflated egos of Premiership.
8.30pm: Check Sky Sports for Masters Football.
Tuesday
9am: Meet boss in office lift. Brain reaches instinctively for safe ground of Premiership issues, in effort to intercept conversation about overdue report. Brain discovers only scraps of Joey Barton transfer gossip and stale leftovers of Jose Mourinho dog story. Hesitate. Boss: "About that report..."
11am: Take coffee break with colleagues. Uncomfortable silence broken by half-hearted observation about General Election. Agree that Bertie is "some man". Uncomfortable silence resumes, until a colleague recalls email received containing joke about Liverpool losing Champions League final. Relieved, even Liverpool fans laugh.
1pm: Make up alibi concerning visit to bank in order to avoid uncomfortable lunchtime silence.
6pm: On train home. Read sports pages in newspaper - article on French Open ladies draw. In response to preponderance of Russians, observe to self that "it's like reading bloody Dr.Zhivago". Snigger at own wit. Imaginary Tony Parsons not impressed. Move on to pompous denouncement of GAA brawl on previous Sunday. Soberly nod at "what about the children?" sentiment. Doze off while reading about Formula One controversy concerning team orders. Dream of being sent to gulag by McLaren boss Ron Dennis along with scared primary school children with hurls. Wake up when drunk falls asleep in lap.
9pm: Resume rearrangement of CD collection. Abandon when heated debate with imaginary Tony Parsons about whether The Clash's London Calling is 'Punk' or 'New Wave' becomes too personal.
9.30pm: Catch final seconds of Sky News sports bulletin item about Robbie Keane signing new contract. Find self missing the little scamp. Heart sinks when next item concerns that new English cricketer with the awful haircut.
10pm: Draft email to Sky Sports: "Dear Sir, I wish to ascertain when broadcasting of this year's 'Masters Football' will commence....."
Wednesday
9am-5pm: Take stairs to avoid boss, bring flask of coffee to avoid uncomfortable break silence and invent visit of mother to town for lunchtime diversion.
6pm: Avoid newspaper, instead listen to London Calling very loud to stay awake. Mutter to self "definitely new wave". Imaginary Tony Parsons glowers.
7.30pm: On scanning Sky Sports channels, observe 'International Football' as scheduled. Heady feeling of euphoria gathers, imagine to be similar to news of Lotto win. Click 'ok'. Ascertain that 'International Football' in question Scotland v Austria friendly.
7.32pm: Flick back to Coronation Street.
8pm: Make up with imaginary Tony Parsons. Acknowledge that Man and Boy very good book. Maintain discretion re opinion on Man and Wife.
8.55pm: Randomly flick through channels in hope of catching Terry Christian or similar rehashing spoonfed thoughts on Eric Cantona in the Premiership Years.
9pm: Tune into Channel 4 for start of new Big Brother series. Feel strange sensation of emptiness being filled. Like heroin addict accepting methadone.
5pm: Turn off television after Championship play-off final. Stare at screen, forlornly. Contemplate emptiness. Blink several times and begin to notice surroundings for first time in months: furniture, carpet, wife.
6pm: Resolve to do something positive with close season this year. Decide to bring old, unwanted clothes to charity shop. Realise all clothes are "old, unwanted". Decide against charity shop idea due to conventional attitude to public nudity. ISPCA? Hate dogs. ISPCC? Hate children. Local Tidy Towns committee? Hay fever. Run marathon for charity? Athlete's foot.
7pm: Decide to rearrange CD collection in order of 'Genre'. Spend 30 minutes deciding whether Pink Floyd's Meddle belongs in 'Prog' or 'Psychedelia'. Conduct imaginary heated Late Review-style discussion on subject, which results in agreement with Tony Parsons on formation of new 'Progedelia' genre.
8pm: Having found no worthwhile other 'side' to personality, resort to League of Ireland action to fill football void. Feel pleased with self, rejoicing in old-fashioned values of domestic football, stripped of vacuous overinflated egos of Premiership.
8.15pm: Another misplaced pass clears Dalymount stand; yearn for vacuous overinflated egos of Premiership.
8.30pm: Check Sky Sports for Masters Football.
Tuesday
9am: Meet boss in office lift. Brain reaches instinctively for safe ground of Premiership issues, in effort to intercept conversation about overdue report. Brain discovers only scraps of Joey Barton transfer gossip and stale leftovers of Jose Mourinho dog story. Hesitate. Boss: "About that report..."
11am: Take coffee break with colleagues. Uncomfortable silence broken by half-hearted observation about General Election. Agree that Bertie is "some man". Uncomfortable silence resumes, until a colleague recalls email received containing joke about Liverpool losing Champions League final. Relieved, even Liverpool fans laugh.
1pm: Make up alibi concerning visit to bank in order to avoid uncomfortable lunchtime silence.
6pm: On train home. Read sports pages in newspaper - article on French Open ladies draw. In response to preponderance of Russians, observe to self that "it's like reading bloody Dr.Zhivago". Snigger at own wit. Imaginary Tony Parsons not impressed. Move on to pompous denouncement of GAA brawl on previous Sunday. Soberly nod at "what about the children?" sentiment. Doze off while reading about Formula One controversy concerning team orders. Dream of being sent to gulag by McLaren boss Ron Dennis along with scared primary school children with hurls. Wake up when drunk falls asleep in lap.
9pm: Resume rearrangement of CD collection. Abandon when heated debate with imaginary Tony Parsons about whether The Clash's London Calling is 'Punk' or 'New Wave' becomes too personal.
9.30pm: Catch final seconds of Sky News sports bulletin item about Robbie Keane signing new contract. Find self missing the little scamp. Heart sinks when next item concerns that new English cricketer with the awful haircut.
10pm: Draft email to Sky Sports: "Dear Sir, I wish to ascertain when broadcasting of this year's 'Masters Football' will commence....."
Wednesday
9am-5pm: Take stairs to avoid boss, bring flask of coffee to avoid uncomfortable break silence and invent visit of mother to town for lunchtime diversion.
6pm: Avoid newspaper, instead listen to London Calling very loud to stay awake. Mutter to self "definitely new wave". Imaginary Tony Parsons glowers.
7.30pm: On scanning Sky Sports channels, observe 'International Football' as scheduled. Heady feeling of euphoria gathers, imagine to be similar to news of Lotto win. Click 'ok'. Ascertain that 'International Football' in question Scotland v Austria friendly.
7.32pm: Flick back to Coronation Street.
8pm: Make up with imaginary Tony Parsons. Acknowledge that Man and Boy very good book. Maintain discretion re opinion on Man and Wife.
8.55pm: Randomly flick through channels in hope of catching Terry Christian or similar rehashing spoonfed thoughts on Eric Cantona in the Premiership Years.
9pm: Tune into Channel 4 for start of new Big Brother series. Feel strange sensation of emptiness being filled. Like heroin addict accepting methadone.
posted by Tommy77 at 5:09 p.m.
1 Comments:
's gonna be a long summer, me lad.
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