I’ve never been an avid football fan singing from the terraces in support of my home team; Luton Town FC. Sure I’ve been to a few matches and used to keep up-to-date with the Premiership, especially my ‘Premiership Club’; Liverpool FC. But I would regularly watch football on the box, in pubs, play fantasy football leagues, argue that Michael Owen should have stayed at Liverpool. I’d have strong opinions on why Steve McClaren, Kevin Keegan or Sven-Goran Eriksson was a bad choice as England Manager and why ‘Psycho’ Pearce would have been the best option. Of course I was talking crap, and so was everyone else.
One day I woke up and realised it was all a load of donkeys gonads. It was literally just like that too. Overnight I no longer cared about 4-4-2, winking Ronaldo or Beckham’s hairdo. If other folk want to splash out on Sky Sports then let them fill the pockets of these metro-men with bloated egos. I knew where it’d all end of course, recession. And what’s more I was right.
I’m not saying that football directly caused the recession but it had a big part to play. Every other twat wanted a Bentley and diamond earrings and a brand new detached house, in a cul-de-sac, in the suburbs. Every other bird wanted to be a wag, with a soft-roader 4×4 and sparkly nails. Every other c u next Tuesday wanted a piece of the action and borrowed more and more money so they could have a taste of the vulgar lifestyle these footballers and their wives had.