The Premier League takes another victim: pub football
Yeah, pub football.
I turn up for games and I find the opposition have got their socks pulled up over their knees like Thierry Henry or John Terry. They’re wearing multicoloured boots. They can’t control a ball for toffee, but wearing canary yellow Puma’s seems to make them feel better about being piss poor.
At half time they start sucking down energy drinks as if they’ll somehow compensate for being a stone and half overweight and never exercising.
There’s people in my own team who insist on wearing base layers, even on a hot day. And there’s others who have no shame in playing wearing gloves or tights on a cold one.
I’m not going to pretend that I’ve never wanted to wear gloves. I feel the cold like everyone else. But when I started playing pub football wearing gloves or, heaven help me, tights would have marked you out for the kind of treatment Andoni Goikoetxea dished out to Diego Maradona.
The worst thing though is when one of these deluded primadonnas scores against you. Time was they’d just jog back to their half. Now they go cart wheeling about like they’d just scored an extra time winner in the World Cup final. They seem to have forgotten this is Sunday morning football. There is almost nothing at stake.
I don’t support a Premiership club and I don’t watch the games. I’m quite happy to let it get on with imploding under the weight of its own ridiculous marketing hyperbole. Can’t I just have one bit of the game free from the Premiership’s tyrannical bullshit?