Football, frankly, has never been my thing. From the early beginnings of my football experience, cold and shivering on a rock-hard football pitch at school with many other more naturally-talented football schoolfriends weaving their barely-formed skills around my big feet, I have never been a football fanatic. As far as I see it, a ball gets kicked around a pitch for 90 minutes, and it *might* go in a goal once or twice. Meanwhile, the sideshow involves who can fake injuries the best to get undeserved penalties. Where’s the fun in that?
My good friend Jac was always raving about it, and that only cemented my stance even more. Michelle is also a big fan – imagine her bad luck at landing one of the few men in the world that is anti-football. In some strange role-reversal, I sometimes end up being the football widow…
It turns out, however, that I’m not the only one. David Mitchell wrote an awesome article in The Guardian this weekend, expressing his bafflement at football’s enthusiasts. “I want a long rest from a game that never sleeps” expresses my feelings about the Beautiful Game in a way that only he can. Footballers, in my view, should down tools and take up a more worthwhile sport.
Like rugby.
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you’re right, I used to be obsessed by it. But ever since it became more of a business than a sport, it has lost its appeal. The influx of pansy foreign players who cry when they get mud on their knees is crippling our national game and nowadays I find myself flicking to a match on TV every now and again and then back again to something more intellectual (like Family Guy), but gone are the days when I will sit right the way through a match.
The beautiful game has lost its beauty.