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Delirious With Weird

Wednesday, February 04, 2004  
A Beautiful Game
I tried running (or jogging, whatever you want to call it) but found it insanely tedious, difficult and insular. I tried swimming but found it wet (plus the last time I went swimming I was just getting changed and leaving as a load of 18 year olds on some swimming 'team' [how can you have a swimming 'team'; it's not a game, you can't help each other? wtf?!] who were all incredibly beefy and probably had huge bollocks arrived with their washboard stomachs and calves like bags of satsumas and made 20lbs overweight me who'd just got out of the pool and was looking a mite dishevelled [and shrivelled] feel somewhat inadequate). I tried cycling and found it incredibly pleasant (especially when undertaken alongside a canal on a hot July day with a camera and a waterbottle, but the upkeep of the bike is rather a bore and what's more expensive, plus, you know, rain. I tried cricket but, philosophical affections aside (any sport that encourages 22 grown men to stand around in a field for three days rubbing leather against their crotches and hitting balls with willow sticks is necessarily a good thing in these hyperaccelerated times), found it fucking dull (my dad played cricket for Yorkshire schoolboys or something so it should be in my blood). I haven't tried golf because it's for cunts and idiots. Rugby? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

But football, football is a beautiful game.

I am slightly pissed off because Arsenal (who I should hate but who I do not) failed to trounce Middlesborough last night when they should have, but this feeling is overweighed by the fact that last night we played eight-a-side against Three Fat Fish (which used to be The Exchange, should Tim Hopkins be reading) and stuffed them 8-4. I scored four, made one, and it was rebounds off a corner that I took which made another. The first goal was a bullet; two touches to steady and then a snap shot through a crowd, unsighted keeper, bottom corner. Second goal a poach; midfielder made a run, past two, losing balance, poked the ball in my direction at a diagonal, out-stretched leftfoot, first time, hapless keeper on his backside. The third a pair of one-twos between me and my brother, that almost telepathic link we have sometimes (lob it over the defender's head as my brother runs past to hit it on the volley? - it's worked before!), an ugly, bundled finish but the build-up was sublime. The fourth was selfish; I stole the ball off the foot of the guy coming through - he was losing balance and momentum anyway - greedily, yes, but I've got a savage rightfoot and an eye for goal. And the keeper never saw it.


2/04/2004 03:25:00 pm


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Nick Southall is Contributing Editor at Stylus Magazine and occasionally writes for various other places on and offline. You can contact him by emailing auspiciousfishNO@SPAMgmail.com

All material © Nick Southall, 2003/2004/2005