SELF HARM WITH A PIG’S BLADDER
I don’t mind admitting I like football. I wish I could say I ‘did’ after this afternoon’s debacle, but the tense is still present. I do like the games that go belly up, even when it’s us on the receiving end. Sure, like you I want the players to accept their penance and volunteer 5 weeks community service when they return to the UK but I know they’ll be forgiven by amnesia-ridden fans in 4 weeks once the new season starts and they’ve run out of things to say about goal-line technology. The knobs.
As a national football team, we are destined to fail when asked to succeed, yet there exists this superiority complex holding hands with a delusion of grandeur every time we talk to the media about it. But failing is the language of Beckett. There is something poetic and scientific hiding here – the choice to fail when they are given every chance (money, facilities, coach, easy opposition, etc) to win. It’s a form of self-harm. A highly knackering public form of masochism. Maybe I should tape hacksaw blades to my typing fingers to truly understand. Or celebrate that we lose with more sadness and drama than France or Italy, and more ego and selfishness than Australia or Serbia, or more comedy and chaos than South Africa or New Zealand.
Stevie Wonder just said playing the final act at Glastonbury’s 40th birthday was fun.
Play for fun.
Got that Fabio?
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