Dear World...

Dear world…. it’s just a game.

Okay, so the result of various horrifying combinations from the top shelf behind the bar on, what is apparently turning into, an annual trip along Jagerbomb avenue during my weekend in The Shire, isn’t usually a surge of creativity on a Sunday morning. 

Last night we were walking to another pub, and word got around about my footballing loyalties. Within a few seconds I had a Gooner either side of me, singing (or more, yelling) anti spurs songs. I did my best to respond in a witty manner, despite my numerical disadvantage, but on the whole my attitude to the situation was somewhat apathetic. 

It’s just a game. 

Okay, so I’ll admit one or two things:

I have a broken Playstation controller from getting, err, a bit annoyed with Fifa. 

I cried when Gareth Bale was sold to Real Madrid – although, a few weeks later I got over myself and refollowed him on twitter. I’m fortunate enough to know how it feels to achieve something that was once just a dream, and his shirt from the Champions League season resides on my bedroom wall.

I nearly lost my voice when Clint Dempsey equalised in the dying seconds against United in 2013. 

But, it’s at this point I refer to Hal Cruttenden’s stand-up routine on football fans. 

He began by stating his disgust at a Manchester United supporter telling a radio presenter that Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement was like ‘a death in the family’ and states that the radio presenter responded in a sympathetic manner, and not, as Cruttenden would’ve expected, by calling him ‘an emotionally retarded twat’.

Mr. Cruttenden then goes on to talk about how he thinks men go to football to take out the emotions that they struggle to express in other parts of their life. 

“I think what people really want to sing is:

I CAN’T EXPRESS MY FEELINGS, I CAN’T EXPRESS MY FEELINGS

I FEEL LIKE CRYING, FEEL LIKE CRYING, FEEL LIKE CRYING ALL THE TIME!

I’VE CLINICAL DEPRESSION, I NEED A THERAPY SESSION, NANANANANA’

It’s funny because it’s true.

However, in equal measure there is a certain beauty to being a football fan. When you’re young, you’re convinced your football team is the best in the world. It doesn’t matter if they’re lounging in the relegation zone and on the brink of administration, those eleven men are your heroes. As far as you’re concerned, they will win every game 10-0 and that’s all there is to it.

But as you get older, these things are put into perspective. Football grounds are horrible places, and in my *holds breath* 24 years of life, I’ve been to a fair few. 

I openly admit to being ‘a sensitive soul’ but regardless of that, I still don’t take any pleasure when the guy sat in the row in front aims a stream of obscenities at a player because they’ve done something trivial, like misplace one pass.

Despite their horrific wages and flashy haircuts, footballers are human beings. 

I speak as somebody who has lost a string of close relatives in the last few years, and thus had to put the game to one side. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still get that same excitement on match day. I still check the line-ups an hour before kick-off. I still make sure whichever of my football shirts happens to have the – albeit usually only temporary – title of being my ‘lucky shirt’, is washed and ready for match day. 

But it all matters that little bit less now. 

The moment that final whistle is blown, it’s game over and normal life resumes.