August
07
Tags
Nothing Short Of A Congealed Mess
I am going to go out on a limb and make a bold prediction.
Sunday morning is going to be terribly awful. Why the blatant pessimism?
Because I’ll be embarking on a five-hour journey across the British Isles, accompanied by a hangover the size of Lake Placid.
Saturday marks the first weekend of the English Football League season. My beloved troops, Portsmouth, kick their campaign off in style at Exeter City.
Defeat is almost incomprehensible. This weekend isn’t any old ‘go to the football and get on the lash’ type of deal. It is infact, a ‘go to the football, get on the lash and partake in a university reunion’ type of deal.
From the very second that work finishes on Friday, I will be straight on the alcoholic sauce until the depths of Saturday night/early grazes of Sunday morning.
With the bright lights of optimism shining on the dawn of a new season, I am quietly kidding myself that at least a 5-0 victory is assured. However, if I have learned anything by supporting the soccer team that I do, crushing lows and disappointments are never too far away.
But this is it. In the same way I am blinded by the visions of Coach Sumlin hoisting a National Championship in January, followed by the Steelers lofting a sticky Lombardi in February, I wholeheartedly believe.
As a sports fan, it’s what keeps you going. Otherwise, what’s the point? You might as well fill up a wheelbarrow full of 16.2% ale and just get obliterated.
A loss on Saturday will not only result in me being mercilessly mocked by my peers, but a huge dent will also be lodged into my homecoming journey on the following day.
Face it, when you’re at the lowest ebb of a hangover – you need every ounce of strength to pull you through. I am already envisioning Portsmouth’s winning goal to be that dignified rock. Without it, I will be nothing short of a congealed mess.
Plus, to compound my misery, a tropical storm named Bertha is expected to slam its way onto British shores at the precise time that I’ll be on my journey home.
Sod it, at the end of the day, all three glorious types of football are slowly on their way back. Perhaps I will just use that as my rock instead. Rejoice, my friends.
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