The 'F' Word

Well, I suppose I had to mention at it some point. Football. Bl***y football, with all its tacky polythene bunting and flags and hooligans and vuvuzazooma horns or whatever those noisy monstrosities are called that are affecting the delicate sensitivities of mine ear.

Honestly, as I was tromping my way home through a particularly undesirable area yesterday, you'd think the Queen was having another Jubilee. Flags of Saint George flapping from upstair windows, plastic bunting strung from door to door to lamp-post to gate-post. I have no objection to shows of patriotism generally - indeed, I am as proud of England as the next woman, and can get quite narky when people slate our country - but as I walked through this ostentatious show of 'Look At Us - Aren't We Great?' I couldn't help but think it was a bit sad that these same people couldn't get the bunting out for Saint George's Day, or during the Olympics, or Wimbledon, or any other event that celebrates what a great country our England is.

No, it takes football to get people excited. Shame.

But not me! Oh no! I don't watch football. I couldn't even tell you, for example, who won any of the many matches that dominated the TV airtime today. And I don't care, either. I know nothing about football except that it is played by teams of 11 over-paid men, who spit a lot and roll around on the grass like toddlers when they think they've been treated unfairly or they are trying to exploit the off-side rule. Is that right? The off-side rule? Something to do with scoring whilst someone else is in the wrong place? Sounds typical footballer behaviour to me; why they should need a special rule about it is beyond my comprehension. Proper manners and a sense of social propriety, that's all they need.

(You may have gathered by now that I am having a rant! It might not be good for the blood pressure, but it don't half make me type quick. I can knock out a blog in twice the normal time when I'm ranting, which is just as well because, if I want a lift home from Andy on his way home from work, I need to high-tail it to the shops PDQ to gather provisions.)

Where was I? Ah yes. Football. I don't get it. I don't get why thousands of people want to buy cheap beer, crisps, pizza and icecream, and sit in front of their tellies watching gane after game of something which, let's face it, looks pretty much the same whoever is playing. Kick, kick, kick, tackle, fall over, roll about, whistle, kick, wave a flag, blow a doo-dah horn, game over....DULL!

AND...can you tell me this? On BBC this evening, the football starts at 7 p.m and finishes at 10 p.m. Three hours. One hundred and eighty minutes. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but each half of a football match is 45 minutes. 45 x 2 = 90. Plus 15 minutes when they all get to go into the changing rooms and suck oranges. Which equals 105 minutes. What are the BBC doing with the other 75 minutes, that's what I want to know? Have they got a deal with Walkers Crisps in that if the viewers spend enough time staring at Gary Lineker they will suddenly think, 'Cor, I could really do with a packet of crisps' ?

Ha! And don't give me that 'extra time' malarkey for an excuse. If these teams are the so-called 'best in the world' they should achieve a definitive win during their allotted playing time, shouldn't they? Get it sorted out quickly and efficiently, and certainly none of this 'going to a penalty shoot-out.' What rubbish!! In fact, they might just as well save another hour or so and just line up a load of balls and get them to kick them into the goal at the start. First one to ten wins. No, make that first one to five and then the BEEB could fill in with an episode of 'The Darling Buds of May' or 'Jam and Jerusalem' to appease the long-suffering football phobics amongst us.

Anyway, I'm not really bothered about the TV being packed with football. I gave up watching Eastenders two and a half years ago now, so am no longer enraged when episodes are moved to make way for pointless sporting tournaments.

And besides, if I can find the right sort of wool in the loft later, I am planning to knit a rabbit this evening.

Who needs to watch football when you can be more gainfully employed knitting rabbits?