bradley headstone
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Posted: December 5th 2008
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If Sky can manage to engineer at least three of the ‘big four’ to their screens on a Sunday it’s a signal for their never less than hyperbolic marketing department to go nuclear in their attempts to find a word beginning with s that adequately expresses the excitement they are feeling about Sunday.
Super, Splendid, Spontaneously combustible, whatever it was Richard Keys and the boys have got to Stamford Bridge nice and early, over four hours early to be exact. Why, to watch telly like you of course. Obviously there would be make up, big knot creating sessions for their ties and some ‘banter’ practice (it doesn’t just happen you know). But in essence they were sitting down to watch the Manchester derby on the telly…and I was joining them!
Not literally, there’s no room for the less than enthusiastic amateur at Sky Sports. No I was on the sofa at home, feeling sorry for myself…I had entered the arena of the unwell. I should provide a little context here. I generally don’t have much truck with being ill, 4 days off in 16 years; I’m no wallower in man flu. But I was struck down by something that had seized my whole body up, left me with no appetite and had expelled whatever I had managed to take on board from the nearest available exit (too much detail, however subtly expressed – queasy ed).
All I was left with is football and TV.
Easing on to the sofa I was surprised to find the FA Cup was in progress, there’s really nothing like ITV to really devalue a competition. I know I wasn’t planning my day in front of football but usually I’d have an inkling of what I’d be missing. So far it was 20 minutes of Histon and Leeds.
Now I know I’m not alone, so I don’t feel too bad, but I’d never come across Histon before and they are only one step away from League status. My first view of them seemed to send me into an immediate relapse. My eyes were runny, I couldn’t focus, the screen was a blur…hang on…no, that’s everyone’s view. Histon appears to be one of those quaint football pastures that have yet to invest in proper camera gantries. It was raining, not biblically, but directly into some poor sodden cameraman who was wishing he was still doing Bullseye.
I know Leeds deserve everything coming to them and will do for as long as the loathsome Bates remains at the helm, but this seemed like God had turned against them. The wind and driving rain seemed permanently in their faces, every 50/50 decision went against them and they have a player called Snodgrass!
Histon inevitably scored and from that moment it was obvious that Leeds wouldn’t, I succumbed to snoozing.
I regained enough presence to work the remote control, this doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve regained consciousness; any red-blooded male can control the TV whilst still being asleep. I awoke to find the Manchester Derby roaring into action, there are no good looking teams anymore but watching Manchester United feels like an episode of Ren and Stimpy sometimes. A forward line of Rooney, Berbatov, Tevez and Ronaldo must make most defenders wonder if the Munsters have come to life. All right Ronaldo isn’t as scary as the others but running like you’ve been electrocuted counts too.
City were only matching United in one area, Hughes went scowl for scowl with Ferguson. Otherwise their expensively cobbled team still had too many Vassel’s and Hamann’s to really compete.
I checked to see if Histon had held on, they had. The draw was in full flow as was the banter betwixt Messers Clemence, Brooking and Rosenthal; at last a programme to match the way I was feeling. Histon had a camera in their dressing room, judging by the fish eye lens it was some kind of surveillance camera, which made you wonder if it was there all the time? The look on their faces when the big fish pulled out of the hat for them was Swansea was priceless. They are wrong, Swansea are a decent outfit that will almost certainly give them a spanking.
The draw continued, as I am most years I was disappointed and Sir Trev, Jim and Ray headed off to the golf course where to be honest, they belong. I returned to Eastlands. United in cruise control, Robhino barely getting a touch. In my present state it was a recipe for unconsciousness, but fortunately the maverick genius of Ronaldo intervened. He is many things and now we can add clairvoyant. Whilst airborne he anticipated Webb’s whistle and attempted to catch the ball rather than head it. Deliberate handball, second yellow, off! As much as I enjoyed his mouthing ‘I heard a beep’ it changed little. There’s still only one team in Manchester.
By now I was getting restless. There was a time when I could’ve seamlessly watched 24 hours of soccer, maybe it’s the hype involved these days or maybe my current weakness but the thought of Chelsea and Arsenal to finish my afternoon was starting to look less appetising. I wandered around the channels, watched Star Wars for a bit and then returned to the Hotel with the football team attached, fortress Stamford Bridge.
…And immediately returned to the land of nod.
I awoke dribble encrusted and pleasantly surprised, ten minutes to go and Arsenal were winning. They duly hung on and I enjoyed Sky’s attempts to get Van Persie and Gallas in the same shot.
So an old school Sunday was at an end, had I not been ill I couldn’t have managed it, I tend to start feeling guilty after an hour of football these days so this probably won’t be repeated anytime soon.
Time for that universal cure-all, a piece of toast!