Football fade away

I heard two young men talk about football today on the train.

One was reeling off the winners of the Champion's League from 2001 onwards.

The other was commenting on the finals: this guy scored in this game, that guy scored in another.

They were reminiscing about footballers, how good they were back then, which team they subsequently joined, the ups and downs of dozens of careers.

Blah, blah, blah.

I used to give a shit about football. I used to read all the match report on the back pages. I used to try and get hold of several newspapers on Sunday or Monday so I could read different versions of events.

I used to watch Match of the Day like my sanity depended on it. Like my soul needed nurturing by Alan Hansen's assessment of boys' half his age or Gary Liniker's goof smile. I used to tape the show when I was out.

But now I don't even watch it if I'm in. Fantasy football is now the only reason to pay any interest. Or if watching a match will result in a trip to the pub.

This is the part of the post were I would give you a reason of why I fell out of love for the beautiful game, or tried to explain my change in interests.

But I can't really. Instead, I will leave you with something paraphrased from Somerset Maugham:

Do you think it's perfectly reasonable for twenty two grown men to run around in a field and chase a bag of air?

(BTW: Half time Liverpool are three nil up against Portsmouth, down you Pomey scummers!)