You may not have noticed, but I hate football. Please note, dear American readers, that I am talking about the game where a ball is kicked with the foot rather than the game where a big rubber egg is thrown with the hands. Not that I like your football either, but I hate actual football more.
Though if I’m painfully honest (though it gives me no pain to be so) I hate all sport really. All of it. Running, jumping, twisting, turning, moving quickly through water or over tarmac, throwing little spikes of metal at defenceless cork boards or thwacking small white spheres into the stratosphere in the hope of them landing in a ditch in the ground, I hate it.
Is hate too strong a word? Weeeeell perhaps. But I do have to admit that if I’m watching the news and then the sport comes on, or if I stray too far past the middle when reading a newspaper and I stumble upon the racing pages, I get angry. I don’t know why and I can’t explain it. One part of me realises that it is perfectly legit to have a sports section after the news. The rest of me wants the sports reporter shot for bad journalism – reporting on a non-topic.
Is this irrational? Yes. Do I care? No.
I remember when I first realised that I could stop pretending to enjoy football and oh what a joyous day that was.
But do I have a problem with you if you like sport? Well actually, I might do. Now I’m a left wing liberal so what two consenting adults or twenty two overpaid children do in the privacy of their own home or grass field is their business. But what really grinds my gears, what fries my noodle to a crisp, what makes me want to jump off the nearest tall building, is people talking about their teams. If you are unsure as to why I would ever feel this, I believe that David Mitchell and Robert Webb have perfectly captured my pain:
There. I’ve had that in my system for quite long enough thank you very much.