Having being thrown out of my local (the living room) for threats of violence (bad sweary shouting at television), the landlord (boyfriend) has banned me from returning to watch the football, and particularly any match involving Manchester United. Interesting, really, since Man U is the landlord’s favoured team and I was merely supporting THEM in a show of supporting HIM (I read Cosmo). But something, something, took over and I can’t control it. I have a reasonably black sense of humour, given, but I plumb uncharted depths of evil in the vitriol I direct at certain players I feel have done wrong against United (Tevez, beware. Unkind. Un-kind.) John Terry is a joke figure now, yet I still laugh with added edge at his misfortunes. I long for a misplaced tackle on Walcott’s simpering, over-rated right foot and I long for a Rooney-ocracy.
My God. That touches the surface, merely. I am truly vengeful and nasty – and utterly without reason. I have very little knowledge of the rudimentaries of the game, nor do I care to learn. My vindictiveness towards teams and players is measured firstly on a scale of damage done to Man U, next ugliness and then seismic-ness of social indiscretion committed (Ashley Cole is currently off the scale.)
But its an outlet and its better that I vent my spleen this way than if I were, say, a prison guard or an illegal arms trader. Its safer.
I’m in the kitchen, making chilli, avoiding a Champions League match which would inevitably lead to me offering to take out Franck Ribery. This is clearly not in line with my quest to ‘be better’. Although not real anger or violence, it nonetheless feels like it. I’ve done an hour of Yoga today and its not enough. The sound of that choir yelping ‘The Champ-ions!’ just as ITV go to break has got me fired, ready to turn green and rip off my shirt.
I’m going to look at daffodils for 90 minutes.