Football

I am becoming increasingly depressed by football. It is not because the heart and soul of the game appears to have drowned in money obsession, but because I support a team whom I love dearly, but who are apparently unable to get the round bouncy thing into the square netty things at the end of the pitch.

The morning of any fixture, I am in cheerful mood. This gradually disintegrates into mean and shouty Mummy (TM), whom t'Midgets (wisely) prefer to give a wide berth to.

Eventually, an hour before kick off, I am a gibbering wreck; constantly checking team lists, injuries, statistics. Referencing back to previous games against what will, inevitably, be today's victors.

By the time the game begins, I am inevitably swearing and desperately unpleasant. Mid way I am practically crying. The end of the game sees the end of any chance of my being in a mood that transcends "foul" for the rest of the day.

So poor is my football viewing behaviour, it has been decreed that I am not allowed to watch the football if the kids are present. My Pavlovian response is currently so appalling that this has been amended to my not being allowed to watch Sky Sports, Sky Sports News, any team play in the flesh or on television, nor am I allowed to read Four-four-two or look at football365.com unless the children are both at school.

It is impossible how 11 men can make me cry so much when splitting up with a boyfriend can often not even concern me. Only The Boy has invoked as many tears to sprout from my eyes as they have.

I wouldn't change 'em for the world though. Bloody rubbish brilliant bastards.