Let me walk you through the ultimate day of watching wall to wall sports. The best possible way to get the most out of your viewing pleasure, told through the eyes of your average sports fan (a fat one at that)
Remember when you used to be able to go places? And do things? My day takes you back to a better, simpler time.
The day starts with a visit to your favourite greasy spoon for a full English breakfast, complete with two half dry half runny eggs and a pot of tea. You walk in already knowing what you’re going to be having, sit down and wait to order, then take a walk to the nearest place that sells papers, peruse the red tops because your intellect knows no bounds, have your breakfast while you read the back pages, if you did nothing for the rest of the day you would have had a great one, but that just the first step on your journey to sporting heaven.
Bloated from breakfast and trying not to burp egg on your walk up to the closest bookies, you grab every single sheet from the rack you can get your greasy hands on, ready to pick your teams for the day,
When you get home, you sit in your favourite seat, the one with your own arse groove, that you and only you sit in, even if people come to over, they know that’s your seat. You flick the tv on, soccer am is just starting, but not soccer am in its current state, it’s shit now, it’s been shit for years, you’re turning on the good old days, Tim Lovejoy and Helen Chamberlin greet you, your favourite skits are all on, Sheephead’s topless weather, Boston goals, Barry Proudfoot and Stan Hibbert, even when there is an advert you know you’re getting the wrestlers. EASY, EASY, EASY, YOU SHUT UP! (If you’re too young to remember old soccer am, Google searches will give you all the history lessons you need)
About half way through the show, your phone pings. ‘fancy the early kick off? Obviously. A plan is hatched, your other mates are on board. Soccer am finishes with just about enough to time to have a quick spruce up, smell your pits, no need for a shower, you’re alright, you had one last night. Then you head to the pub, you chat absolute bollocks and watch some football. You’ve got a good table, it’s not overly busy, because you don’t want it overly busy do you. A proper pint in a proper glass, a packet of scampi fries and a pickled egg in a bag of walkers salt and vinegar crisps. You’d taken your betting sheets, had look through with the boys, you can’t lose, there is no way all your bets aren’t coming in. You’ve not backed the early kick off though, because under absolutely no circumstances do you ever, ever put the early game in your accumulators.
Halftime comes, the darts board is free, you get the arrows from behind the bar, you’ll only manage one leg in 15 mins over halftime because none of you can hit a double, you’ll all be left on a one dart single number finish, because your useless, but that’s ok, you’re all useless, the object is get through halftime and back in your seats ready for the second half.
After the game it’s back to the bookies, put your bets on, lose a quick £20 on the roulette and get back to whoever’s house you’re going to, to watch Soccer Saturday with Jeff and the boys, the old guard, Phil Thompson, Matt Le Tissier, Paul Merson and champagne Charlie Nicholas. You’ve got the dream line up today, from Soccer Saturday in its pomp.
It’s absolutely fine that by 20 past 3 all but two of your bets look like losers because the last two have a chance. Ultimately your bets lose but it’s not a big deal because in 40 minutes the evening game is going to come on, although you know this is going to be less about the game and more about the ensuing evening. The tv is on mute and the music is pumping, probably 5ive’s greatest hits or something great like that. You sneak in a quick game of FIFA before the game kicks off, a few crisp cold cans from the fridge hit the spot. When the late game is over, your days over right? Wrong. There’s a big fight on tonight, and the place in town that has the projector screen is showing it, so its off into town you go.
Two middleweights fighting for the green and gold WBC belt, so you know it’s going to be a toe to toe war. There isn’t much like the atmosphere surrounding a big fight, you can feel it building through the evening, the tension in the air is palpable everybody is an expert, and you know you’ll see two blokes trying to knock 7 bells out of each other on the way home. The fight is over, your man has won in the 11th, your voice is horse from beer and shouting. “Use your fucking jab” has been your favourite phrase of the evening.
You know on your way out of the bar there is now only thing for it. The kebab shop, you know the one, the one where he doesn’t know your name and you don’t know his but you have a laugh with him when you go in there, and he gives you one of his paper hats, that kebab shop is the one for you, you buy chips for the walk home, this place puts the right amount of sauce, salt and vinegar on your chips, not like the other place, it’s nice but they just don’t do it like your place. And you’ve got a kebab for when you get in. Once you’ve eaten you’re ready to hit the hay. You’d set out to have a great day of sport, and you’ve smashed it, you can go to bed safe in the knowledge of a job well done.
Cheers, The Fat Man.
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