Turns out one of my best friends is having his birthday do on Sunday at 1pm, for two and a half hours.

Selfish bastard.

Granted, it’ll be fun. We’re playing indoor golf. With a virtual screen or something. I don’t really get it. Not yet anyway. Do you hit an actual ball at something? Do we have to walk about and complain about the virtual wind and rain? Will it be better than crazy golf?

These are all very important questions, but are to be answered at another time.

What this does mean however is I’ll be having one of the days when you know there is an important game on, but some commitment means you can’t watch it. Usually it’s some dull family get together where you have to wear your best shoes and nice trousers. It’s all about subtely trying to find out scores and trying to take in as much as the game as possible, without looking like you are being distracted from the occassion you are attending.

There is, my friend, quite a skill involved with this.

One skill which I truly lack.

It doesn’t help that I’m a clumbsy, accident prone bastard. I’ll be trying to subtely lean around the corner to watch the game on the big screen, where I will fall, grab onto something. That something will turn out to be some old lady’s boob, I will then, as a result, be sued for sexual harrassment. My defence will be based around ‘But….but… who would want to touch a woman’s boob?’ and because of that guy, will fall on deaf ears (her deaf ears)

It doesn’t help I’m a bloody idiot. After all, the other night, I managed to get stuck, in my own shoe. I had tied my shoe-lace with the mother of all knots, it was horrible, it was the knot equivalent of the plot from Inception, but less smug. In the end, it took me 20 minutes to untie my shoe lace.

That’s right…20 fucking minutes.

I think a T-Rex would have done a better job than I did.

So how the hell am I going to cope with this situation?

Well, it’s obvious, just go COMPLETELY the other way. Make it glaringly obvious that I’m going to watch it.

First off, turn up looking like this 

And yes, I’ll be crying, I’ll be kicking up a big fuss, don’t you worry about that. It may be my mate’s birthday, but oh my, he’ll quickly realise it’s not about him on this particular birthday.

I will then tell you everybody who is a wearing even a bit of white shirt to ‘Jog on you posh bric-a-brac shop bunch of olive eating bastards’. Y’know, Fulham, play in white, Harrods, being dead tacky. Yes, people will be confused, but that means they’ll think about it for longer.

This will be followed by drinking at least 23 Jager bombs, showing my totally middle-class ways in the process, by throwing up all over the bar and writing ‘I love Andy Mutch’ in it.

By this point, I’m likely to have been kicked out, or died of alcohol poisoning. But I made my mark, plus my mate had a birthday he will never forget. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what watching football is all about?

Shame I ‘m likely to do all that before the start of the game though.

Bloody idiot.