After all those counties kicking around a ball in a place where we thought was full of hooligans and Nazis and hooligans shagging Nazis, who actually turned out to be fairly quiet. And sometimes a bit dull.
And after all that Olympics thing, where we (people who live in London anyway) all thought ‘bloody tourists, bloody tubes, bloody Olympics!’ which turned out to be a really incredible couple of weeks. A couple of weeks that we aren’t ever likely to experience again.
After all that, the day had finally arrived.
Some bloody sun. Where we can all sit in park and sweat and drink some booze.
And all this at the same time that there was some bloody football on.
It was a fairly depressing watch for me. Nevermind the score, but on such a glorious day, I was stuck a dark, overpriced London pub, with one other Wolves fan, two or three Leeds fans who left at half-time (typically) where a majority of the game was soundtracked by Reggae.
No point buttering my argument up. It is shit.
Not only is the music bad, but Reggae has bought us some of the worst things of our generation, including:
- Dreadlocks, which evolved into dreadlocks on white people
- Bad posters involving some famous person with a illustrated spliff in their mouth
- The idea that hemp clothing is ok (not even Woody Harrelson can do that)
So from this darkened room, I kept on peering outside into the glorious sunshine. It was like being locked up in my classroom again, looking outside, asking ‘Miss, can we have our lesson outside today?’ knowing full well that she’ll laugh, and say no, where inside she’s thinking ‘you ask me this every single time its sunny you fucking twerp!’
Even my girlfriend, who came along to the pub with me, gave up and sat outside to read her book. She is, after all, much wiser than I am. She did come back in though, so she is also much braver than I am.
But this is the thing about football, it’s the little sacrifices you make, even when it’s so early on in a season, nevermind big, big games.
It was easy to forget how important football was to us, especially after we had all become handball and judo experts. But, at the end of the day, home is where the heart is. We don’t like too much change. We know what we like, and we love it.
And that’s why its so good to have it back.
The Olympics provided us with what athletes should be like.
Football will provide us with all the drama that surrounds being an utter bunch of wankers.
And that’s why we love it.
Welcome back, we’ve missed you old friend.
Oh, and if you’re disappointed about the result, don’t be. Because remember:
At least we don’t have Neil Warnock.
Or El Hadji fucking Diouf.