22 June 2018
That’s “Goal!” yelled at full throttle and as long drawn-out as you can hold your breath. Give it a try, preferably in the middle of a field. Or in the pub with your pals when your team scores.
Enthusiasm for the beautiful game is now at fever pitch with the World Cup taking place in Russia. The Football World Cup I mean; there must be other world cup competitions for sports but I can only think of football.
You can tell when you’re getting old. You get all ready to watch your team (England in my case) with a favourite brown drink, snacks and possibly a small flag. You watch the build up. (An interminable but useful three quarters of an hour on the BBC. I say useful because you can use the time to wash up, prepare for bed, put the cat out…).
Then the teams come out, each clutching the hand of a diminutive child. National anthems are played, a coin tossed and pennants exchanged. The crowd is whooping and whistling, enough to drown the start of the game — but it does start!
And I beat a hasty retreat. Totally chicken out! Simply can’t bear to watch. What a muff!
Several hours later I tune in to get the result of the match on the wireless (hurray or boo hoo), and later still watch the highlights on catch-up.
BH would be ashamed of me.