Swap Seats Anyone?

*Listening to Elvis Perkins – Hey*

Does every row at football matches contain a tool or three on it that knows very little about football? Or do they just seem to pick me out and set it upon themselves to annoy me?

Cries of “SHOOT!!” when the player is off balance and about 30 yards out or “BREAK HIS LEGS!!” or moaning that the player has done something more productive with the ball than this guy could even comprehend let alone attempt are ceaseless. I do enjoy the reaction though when their moaning is cut short when they realise how wrong (and ridiculous) they are.

If this person was six-years old then, yeah, that would be fine- maybe not the break his legs bit, mind- I did the same when I was a kid, as well as the constant barrage of questions in the direction of my Dad. But then you hear some nonsensical abuse for no apparent reason and you realize that- on the outside at least- this person is in their late teens. You know the kind of guy we’re talking about, the one that thinks opposition fans are there to be fought with rather than enjoy a bit of light-hearted banter with. These people give the game a bad name.

30 Years Of Hurt

*Listening to Envy Corps – Dwell*

If you’re thinking of great UK albums going back to 1980, you’re going to land on some pretty darn special ones. Or you would think so anyway.

The BRIT Awards are celebrating their 30 pointless, zeitgeist-missing years by having a BRITs Album of 30 Years. And what a shocker of a list it is:

                         

                          Coldplay – A Rush of Blood to the Head
                          Dido – No Angel
                          Dire Straits – Brothers in Arms
                          Duffy – Rockferry
                          Keane – Hopes & Fears
                          Oasis – (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
                          Phil Collins – No Jacket Required
                          Sade – Diamond Life
                          The Verve – Urban Hymns
                          Travis – The Man Who

Bovril and Balls

*Listening to Gaslight Anthem – ’59 Sound*

Well what a pathetic day, eh? You could count the amount games on a bumpkin’s hand, only a meagre six games get past a bit of snow.

There’s only one reason why the games have fallen foul to the weather – the lack of the orange football. (As me Dad hastened to add, “And open terracing and cups of Bovril.” So just hand out a cup of Bovril on entry and all will be gravy, so to speak.) As soon as the FA used to get out the orange Mitre sphere, the whole nation sighed a sigh of relief knowing they were not only going to be a able to see the ball, but watch a full game of snowy football.

If the goalkeepers are a little worried about feeling the cold, they can always ask Gábor Király where he goes shopping. And the rest of the side can do a Rusty and pop into the club shop and buy yourself some nice Yella’n'Green gloves.

Us fans are going to turn up if the “surrounding areas are unsafe,” after all, we’ll even go watch in Cardiff. Those surrounding areas are less than safe but we grin and bear it. The weather’s always a problem that we just accept and complain about; getting there, sitting there and then leaving.