Football and trousers - New Year, same old twaddle
Hello you, and Happy New Year! I hope and trust that you are well, and that your festive period was suitably festive and gay, in the traditional sense, unless the more modern sense is what rocks your boat in which case, hope it was that too.
Now that I'm done with all of the introductory pleasantness, I should tell you that I have an illness that I fear is uncureable. I suffer from an ailment that drives me to do things that I would normally think foolish, and spend money and time obsessing about something that probably isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things. Or that's what other people claim it to be, although I put very little faith in other peoples thoughts, especially when it's about....... that's right, football.
You see, I suffer from Calciolism: A love, nay, a yearning, a desire, a need, of football. What's that? A youth player from a big team is signing for an insignificant, backwater team, you say? I'm on it. I need to know who, when, why and how much. Which leads me into a rather easy jibe about Federico Macheda signing for Sampdoria. Chortle.
But anyway, if there was such a thing as this illness, I would probably reject off-hand the notion of getting help from a support group, who for the purposes of an upcoming play on words (you have been warned: set face to mildly amused) could be called FA (Footballitis Anonymous). Alternatively, it could be called SFA (Supporters of Football Anonymous). However, as I don't think that this love of jumpers for goalposts etc etc is a bad thing, I intend to do Sweet FA about this. Boom boom! (It's taken me longer than is healthy to animate those last few tortured sentences into life, so I hope that my effort was appreciated. Or if not, that you keep the hate mail to a minimum.) The acronym SFA and the governing body and organisation that it represents is a joke in itself of course, but that's a bit too niche, I think. You're already reading a blog which, no matter how it's dressed up, is basically about me, which is probably niche enough for anybody. And if you don't know what the SFA is, don't worry, it's not important.
But as someone sitting on a train in Britain might think to themselves, is this actually going anywhere? To which I say, yes. For it went like this: On Thursday I got back to Italy after spending the holiday period in Edinburgh. My flight landed at about 1.20, I got back to the apartment to dump my stuff at 2.20, and made it to the stadium in time for kick off at 3. We played the dirty dirty fascist pigs, who sometimes go by the name of Lazio, and valiantly drew 0-0, a scoreline which belies the fact that the game wasn't all that bad. It was wet and bloody freezing though, and if it wasn't for the football I wouldn't have ventured outside again that day. But like I say, I'm sick. One good piece of news shortly after the game though was that the statue that impersonates a man, Luca Toni has packed his bags and even now is lumbering soporifically towards his new home at Juventus. Seriously, I've had constipation that's faster than him.
Not a lot else has happened in the two days I've been back, so not a great deal more to waffle about, although yesterday I did buy new jeans. I consider buying trousers about as interesting as buying pants for myself - they're truly the underwear of outerwear. However, my reluctance to splash the cash on new trousers was tempered with the almost-reality of being able to see my actual pants through my trousers. I'm not quite at the Superman stage yet, so this forced my hand somewhat. Ho, and very much, hum.
You may recall that in the past I have mentioned Operation Unlocked Toilet Door. Before Christmas I accidentally put this plan into full effect, to suitably hilarious consequences. Needless to say, I saw one of my flatmates faces cross the whole gamut of surprise, shock, revilement (and I'd like to think, but don't really believe, a wee bit of being impressed) in a split second. We didn't really make eye contact or speak to each other for a few days. So there's a tip for you: if you want to avoid speaking to someone, have them open the door on you while you're having a crap. Easy.
Right, on that note that's your lot, I'm off to read about football.
Bu Bye!
Now that I'm done with all of the introductory pleasantness, I should tell you that I have an illness that I fear is uncureable. I suffer from an ailment that drives me to do things that I would normally think foolish, and spend money and time obsessing about something that probably isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things. Or that's what other people claim it to be, although I put very little faith in other peoples thoughts, especially when it's about....... that's right, football.
You see, I suffer from Calciolism: A love, nay, a yearning, a desire, a need, of football. What's that? A youth player from a big team is signing for an insignificant, backwater team, you say? I'm on it. I need to know who, when, why and how much. Which leads me into a rather easy jibe about Federico Macheda signing for Sampdoria. Chortle.
But anyway, if there was such a thing as this illness, I would probably reject off-hand the notion of getting help from a support group, who for the purposes of an upcoming play on words (you have been warned: set face to mildly amused) could be called FA (Footballitis Anonymous). Alternatively, it could be called SFA (Supporters of Football Anonymous). However, as I don't think that this love of jumpers for goalposts etc etc is a bad thing, I intend to do Sweet FA about this. Boom boom! (It's taken me longer than is healthy to animate those last few tortured sentences into life, so I hope that my effort was appreciated. Or if not, that you keep the hate mail to a minimum.) The acronym SFA and the governing body and organisation that it represents is a joke in itself of course, but that's a bit too niche, I think. You're already reading a blog which, no matter how it's dressed up, is basically about me, which is probably niche enough for anybody. And if you don't know what the SFA is, don't worry, it's not important.
But as someone sitting on a train in Britain might think to themselves, is this actually going anywhere? To which I say, yes. For it went like this: On Thursday I got back to Italy after spending the holiday period in Edinburgh. My flight landed at about 1.20, I got back to the apartment to dump my stuff at 2.20, and made it to the stadium in time for kick off at 3. We played the dirty dirty fascist pigs, who sometimes go by the name of Lazio, and valiantly drew 0-0, a scoreline which belies the fact that the game wasn't all that bad. It was wet and bloody freezing though, and if it wasn't for the football I wouldn't have ventured outside again that day. But like I say, I'm sick. One good piece of news shortly after the game though was that the statue that impersonates a man, Luca Toni has packed his bags and even now is lumbering soporifically towards his new home at Juventus. Seriously, I've had constipation that's faster than him.
Not a lot else has happened in the two days I've been back, so not a great deal more to waffle about, although yesterday I did buy new jeans. I consider buying trousers about as interesting as buying pants for myself - they're truly the underwear of outerwear. However, my reluctance to splash the cash on new trousers was tempered with the almost-reality of being able to see my actual pants through my trousers. I'm not quite at the Superman stage yet, so this forced my hand somewhat. Ho, and very much, hum.
You may recall that in the past I have mentioned Operation Unlocked Toilet Door. Before Christmas I accidentally put this plan into full effect, to suitably hilarious consequences. Needless to say, I saw one of my flatmates faces cross the whole gamut of surprise, shock, revilement (and I'd like to think, but don't really believe, a wee bit of being impressed) in a split second. We didn't really make eye contact or speak to each other for a few days. So there's a tip for you: if you want to avoid speaking to someone, have them open the door on you while you're having a crap. Easy.
Right, on that note that's your lot, I'm off to read about football.
Bu Bye!
posted by michael | 08:25
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home