Everything is shit: bring on tomorrow

Football eh? What a crock of shit. Games behind closed doors are crap. The whole wonder of going to the match reduced to just some lads kicking a ball, shorn of occasion, spectacle, the sense of ritual, the humour and the (so very scarce in modern life, even without a pandemic) sense you're sharing something with strangers.

Gone is the feeling of communality. The rare sense of people gathering, people sharing a common cause. No point hammering on romantically about it but despite everything bad about football, it's still a million times more social than going to the shops or pretty much owt else I can think of. For fucks sake, where else do we gather together and sing, unbidden by music, where else do people connect with the rhythm and flow of something that can unfold in a myriad of different ways? For all it's been bought and sold, for all it's been sprayed clean with disinfectant, sanitised and reformed, it's still a magical anomaly in a world of ordered and choreographed experiences. 

Shouting at the telly makes you feel sheepish. It's not the same as when your voice melds with thousands of others. Those moments are gone. Lost for so long now, thinking of normality is like nostalgia. Pushed so far into the future that it's difficult to imagine feeling that way again. The full throated outrage of an incorrect decision. The desperate plea to attack, a building crescendo you can feel in your whole body. The sudden applause and collective appreciation of a sharp tackle, a bit of skill or an incisive pass. Even a substitution is a thing of drama, greeted with a rumble of discontent, an approving cheer or even sometimes a stunned and confused silence. 

Even silence is theatre. The quiet after they score, a vortex, the centre of a whirlwind, calm before the storm of exhortations to 'sort it out' 'c'mon!' and the cathartic cries of 'fuck's sake Pool' 

Oh, for a goal. Oh, for the sheer unadulterated release of a ball hitting the net and being there to witness it. Not the TV 'oh, we've scored' reaction, but the wave of noise that lifts you, the visceral sense of being connected to the players and the ball alike beforehand, the way you stand, you tense every sinew, it feels as if you lean into the shot yourself, or rise for the header and then, when the ball lands in the goal, you lose it. Raw throated cries, everything you feel, released 5, 10 seconds of simple, primal delight. Something pure. It's stupid, it's absurd, it's meaningless but it's undeniable. It means something. It's a feeling you don't get anywhere else. It's an out of body moment and it's the whole reason you're there. 

I miss it. I miss it a lot. I miss it every week and I wonder why people are out and about shooting grouse, why I'm answering my door to salespeople, going to work to sit in an office, using petrol pumps, trudging round supermarkets and my kid is in a full class at school but yet stadiums remain locked and bolted. In my heart of hearts I guess it's probably just a case of me sulking cos I can't do what I want, but in the same heart of hearts I also feel there's a huge hypocrisy going on. Football fans can't be trusted. Posh cunts with guns can. Football fans are drunken louts but Bullingdon club opera goers are jolly champagne swigging japesters who obviously know the line. 

Football itself isn't helping. That can fuck off too. Imagine what sort of twat thinks up the 'big picture' and then drop it in to the mix at this particular moment. A time when there's no fans to speak out against it. It's as if they're simply demonstrating that it's their game, not ours. We're all locked out and they can not only go in, but also rip up the game itself if they want. It's like they waited till we went out and then chucked dogshit round our house, choosing this moment when we're stuck elsewhere to try and redecorate football with their mental ideas about what the game needs. They've not gone away either and no one needs this right now. And yet, there they are, posturing and laying down diktats like they own the place. 

We're shite too. Gone is the promise of swift passing and rapier like attacking. Replaced by a static formation that is labelled as attacking but looks anything but. We look like a bunch of teenagers being exhorted to try harder by their well meaning youth club leaders on some kind of character building outing. There's no self expression, no joy, no relish in the challenge in front of us. 

We can't even yell "Sort it out Critchley!" Turning off the telly doesn't have the same drama as standing and leaving, muttering "fucking rubbish, fucking rubbish" to anyone in the vicinity. We can't offer such sage advice to the team as "fuck off Turton" or "just fucking shoot!" or the all time classic "for fucks sake, score!" 

We can't even go for a pint to drown our sorrows. Having a pint will kill you. Eating a ten course meal of caviar, quails eggs and souffle drowned in as many bottles of vintage wine as you can fit on your table, then followed by a cheeseboard and port won't. Why? Because posh people can be trusted and we're all just scum, who as soon as we drink a drop of the disgusting warm ale we imbibe in our pox riden taverns, become animals with no inhibitions. Which is why we need rules. It's why servitude is good for us. It lifts us above what we are. Educates us in civilisation. We should be grateful to our betters and wish them well in their leisure, thankful for all they've done. 

Fuck it all. It's shite. 

Bring on Saturday. We're going to win. We are. Then it won't be quite as shit. 

utmp