Walking the Tightrope: Football? - No Thanks!
Every aspect of football has escaped from the usual safe prison of the sports pages says Sally Codman as she contemplates fleeing to Mars to escape from the excessive converage of the 2004 European football tournament.
If I won the Lottery I'd buy a ticket out of here immediately - but don't go getting the wrong idea - it wouldn't be a plane ticket to Portugal to watch England.
Definitely not!
I'd be after a ticket to Mars, or anywhere to get away from the football frenzy that's gripping the world. Given the state of play globally, Mars seems like the best bet.
For any football-hating female like myself, life has headed downhill fast in the last few weeks. Every aspect of the F-game has escaped from it's usual safe prison of the sports pages and is rampaging across all the pages of every mag or paper you pick up.
I've tried really hard to avoid anything to do with it - short of literally burying my head in the sand - but it's a case of too much information in too many places. I know more about 'Wonderful' Wayne Rooney, the current wunderkind of footie, than I'd ever imagined in my worst nightmare.
In desperation I turned to the fashion pages, usually guaranteed to provide a good laugh. They didn't fail me. The gorgeous stick-insects who inhabit these sections looked ridiculous sporting sixties-style coats covered in black and white footballs. Other offerings included T- shirts with slogans such as "show me your tackle" and sports bags with red, white & blue football designs.
There was one t-shirt I almost sent for - that had "fcuk FOOTBALL ...what about me" in red letters across the front, but I decided to pass when I saw the price - £20. There's bound to be something on Huddersfield Market that's better value.
Escape is impossible, even at home. Husband and son collaborated - under cover of a supermarket run - and returned, minus essentials like milk and tea bags, but grinning happily. Only son, aged eleven, was sporting one of those hideous St George shirts. Thank God they'd run out of "flags" in my husband's size.
TV schedules are completely monopolised . All last week I was reduced to watching Alan Titchmarsh (the green-fingered woman's potting-shed pin-up) in the cheap seats on the kitchen TV. Screen One (in the lounge, with the comfy seats) was showing yet another football match between countries I didn't even know fielded teams!
In desperation I went for a walk.
The local pub was festooned in more of THOSE flags. Strains of the worst football anthem ever, some awful recording entitled "On the ball" was pounding through the open doors.
I bolted for home.
As I returned up our shared driveway I realised, with horror, that even the neighbours have joined the conspiracy. Their hanging baskets have sprouted matching flags.
NO…No… For a moment paranoia got the better of me. I imagined a dastardly plot to genetically engineer red and white flag-like plants that would breed like dandelions and take over gardens everywhere.
Admitting to myself that I was overreacting I resorted to going to the gym again. I should have known better. Everyone was sporting England shirts in various hideous styles. Even the numbers of red, white and blue swimsuits and towels had multiplied beyond belief.
As a last resort I tried a little retail therapy. But even the bookshops were full of titles involving the F-word.
You may find it hard to believe but I haven't always hated football. In my twenties ( don't ask) I even played in a five-a-side works tournament. I have a truly embarrassing photo to remind me. I was even known (occasionally) to watch hubby on a Sunday morning, but when he hung up his boots I wasn't sorry.
I admit it, I've even been to a match THIS YEAR! After standing ankle-deep in mud on Battyeford playing fields, almost freezing to death in that local speciality, horizontal rain, I told only son, "Do you know you're the ONLY PERSON in the whole world that I would have turned out to watch play football on a day like this?"
He was quiet for a moment (a small miracle in itself). Then he asked "Even if Rooney or Becks were playing?"
"Especially if Rooney or Becks were playing," was my reply.
Another pause, then "But you'll come and watch me when I'm England striker won't you?"
"Course I will, provided you buy me that house in Vancouver with a heated swimming pool."
But for the next few days I'd still take that ticket out of here. Beam me up Scottie. With my luck they'll have a version of the F-game on Mars!
Copyright Sally Codman 2004
