The End of my Passion for Football

I’m in a pub on a Saturday afternoon, watching a football match being played at the other end of the country, and sipping a Diet Coke. I’m not from South London, nor am I from Brighton. But the prospect of the team I follow (Crystal Palace) losing to their closest rivals (Brighton) fills me with dread.

Why? No idea. The teams are generally made up of overpaid young men, all of whom are strangers to me and always will be, playing a simple game that appears to warrant aggressive behaviour and even hatred towards each other.

It’s all so ridiculous. So I’m resolving, as the game draws to a conclusion, to give up football. There are a hundred other things I could be doing. The cinema, for example, which is cheaper, warmer, friendlier and where I don’t come out having lost 4-0 and spoiling my weekend.

Or I could write that novel. It’s been in my mind for years. Maybe I’ll Paint a picture. Go out with my camera. Brush up on my Spanish. All of which are more productive and much less annoying, tense or depressing. So goodbye, football. It’s been a blast but I don’t care any –

GOOOOOOAAAAAL!!

We’ve scored ! And the ref’s blown his whistle, it’s all over!!

Brighton 0 Palace 1! I love football, me!

Please disregard this post.