Football is Stupid

I will start by saying what it is not. It is not religion and it is not an illegal narcotic. Saying that, it does seem to cause many sufferers (or addicts) to seesaw between states of transcendental bliss and cataclysmic devastation, spend far more money than they can afford, destroy their closest relationships and even disfigure themselves with tattoos. Fans (as they are better known) collectively ignore the fact there are grownups chasing a leather air bubble whilst being shouted at by thousands of men. Fans subject themselves to this experience on a regular basis either at allocated stadia or in public venues where they can also drink alcohol. These experiences are then replayed, analysed, disected and discussed for (sometimes) years and years after the event. It goes without saying, football is a phenomenon that we are only on the cusp of understanding, a bit like god or the appeal of cats.

Millions of people love football. Can they all be wrong? For me, the short answer is yes. Dare we mention Hitler’s Germans or owners of Shania Twain’s album Come on Over (39 million sales)? And what about the tedious board game Monopoly (465 million players worldwide!)? The point I’m trying to make is this: popular does not equal right; it does not equal sensible. 

Football provides drama and excitement in what is – for most fans – a dull, boring, limp existence. Some people get their kicks watching films or skydiving or genocide, others choose football. Before football, there were real things at stake.

Sometimes, emotions flow outside pre-agreed boundaries and fans deem it acceptable to engage innocent passers-by in drawn-out lectures about various aspects of the game. Some venture forth proposals to engage in physical violence. I have witnessed extreme examples of this behaviour in real life and it’s not something I care to repeat. There is no known cure for this strange affliction at the time of writing this article.

The love of a team brings crowds of strangers together, swaying like a great ocean of faeces in a swathe of blue or red or green or black or whatever tribal colour. The anonymous whole becomes a gargantuan, living organism, pulsing with passion, a colony supporting the whole, together we stand and sing and chant – for 90 minutes, anyway – before being shat out, in long coiling turds, by the great conglomeratous arse of the stadium. But fragile bonds holding fans together are formed not by the colours they uphold but by the rejection and rebuttal of opposing bands of colour, opposite tribes, them and us. We are us and everything else is the enemy.

Footy: a transcendental state of consciousness, this meditation on football, this loss of self, as therapy, stress relief, an outpouring of pure raw emotion quietly bottled up all week in an effort to remain civilised.

Many moons ago, humans dominated each other in more murderous ways; rival tribes would hack each other to pieces, pillage each other’s possessions and rape whoever was left over – then go back home to celebrate. That’s not really allowed anymore, so, in a flurry of self-conscious posturing, minitribes (football crowds) call each other insulting names and chant little hymns in honour of their selected representatives (team), all during an allocated timeslot and at a specific venue.

At every turn the team will try to monetise its feeble-brained devotees. What happened to the footy top with a history? My uncle’s Everton top had stains he could name; each had a provenance, a traceable history. Not today, not possible; each year, the team will change the design to elicit a surge in demand and profit. A whole range of merchandise. Pesky, greedy, business people!

Football, like any life form, has evolved over the years, and not just the fashion. Who can watch an eighties footy match without blushing? How short were those shorts! What a game lacked in tension it more than made up for in the agonising threat of a loose tackle.

And what became of decency groups and the sniggering policeman cupping his helmet against a streaker’s genitalia? Ridding fans of the opportunity to streak has weakened the game, I’m sure many will agree.

How many working days are lost through football? According some surveys, employers fear a ‘sickie epidemic’ will cost around £1 billion. Some estimates suggest 40 per cent of employees could pull a sickie to watch their beloved game.

Apparently, several spineless employers, bending under the immense pressure and fear of losing staff to the looming temptation, have introduced a flexi-routine; they’ll allow staff to catch up on their hours at a later date. Madness. Does nobody fear unemployment anymore? Employers feel they are bent over the proverbial barrel and ready to take one for the team, if necessary.

We want staff to be happy. Then why not let Smelly Alan chug on his vodka all day and let Sticky-Boy masturbate to his favourite porn? Yeah, they can catch up with work later. Where could this end?

I believe any sane employer is aware that every four years, a large portion of the population feel it their god-given duty to drop out of society for a few weeks. It is easy, I believe, to weed out potential ingrates at the interview stage. But remember, these people need money to fuel their habit; they could pretend to be normal until they get their foot in the door.

Ok, it has to be said, that without football, a large chunk of society would never have anything to say, ever, at all. However, endless chatting about footballers, past performances, comparing knowledge and general faffing off about this inconsequential drivel, is annoying.

I have witnessed grown men waste an entirely good opportunity to discuss relationships whilst on a long journey. For two hours, I swear, they never once mentioned how they were feeling about anybody; they discussed goals, misses that should have been goals, poor management decisions, how they would have organised the squad in a more creative way, create more chances and repeatedly: close them down, whatever that means.

I can only feel for the poor linesmen who barely get a mention, although it must get chilly standing out in those shorts in the winter.

Some advocates would have us believe football is a sport, that it is competitive. Yes, it is a physical activity, governed by rules and the players seem to engage in some level of competition. However, the introduction of money, I believe, has taken the fresh faced innocence of competition and pooed all over it.

It is now possible – the world being much smaller in terms of accessibility (not including the big volcanic ash clouds that threaten to turn us all back to pre-air travel god help us) – that extremely rich people can buy all the most skilful players and form an elite team of super athletes.

Take this one step further, suppose I—a great hater of the game—suddenly and inexplicably inherit the entire wealth of all the Arab nations combined. Have you supposed? Ok, bear with me: now I can buy every great player, employ them, toys to kick a ball around my extensive (and private) gardens for my personal and private entertainment. I have robbed the football-playing gene pool of its stars. They are mine. You have nothing but the dregs to scrap over.

But they’d never play along with it, you say. Yes they would, says I. Why? Because I can make them richer than they’ve ever dreamed. They get to play their beloved game with the best in the world. But, like all employees, they do what they have to do to secure the steady drip drip drip of income. Like me, like you, eh.

What happened to the working class game? In my day, pretty much all the fans were working class or thereabouts. Not now. Who can afford to attend? A season ticket at Liverpool FC won’t give you much change from £800 and there is now a waiting list for wannabe season ticket holders. And that doesn’t give you entitlement to tickets to important games; there’s a little fear clause stating priority will be given to supporters who have purchased the most tickets. Here are your choices: pay or pay.

There is now a phenomenon: Denvy or Den Envy. Men (mostly men) have created little caves in which they can enjoy the World Cup. Good dens include a massive television, of course, with surround sound, deep comfortable man chairs with holders for beer. There is a private and well-stocked refrigerator (beer) and a cupboard of snacks. These dens are lads-only affairs, and designed to indulge footy-watching urges in maximum comfort. Women are not allowed. Some men are envious of their friend’s dens, hence: denvy. Should we care? No.

It may come as a shock to some of you dear readers, that Americans have taken the word ‘football’ and dishonoured its meaning. They (Americans) associate this word with a game that seems to involve neither feet nor a proper-shaped ball. They wear body armour to play, possibly a sad desire to evolve into some sort of exoskeletal-human-ogre species.

Some of their ilk continue to play football as we know it, but have called it ‘soccer’.  They claim an English toff invented this name (in short for ‘association’) but that is probably just a load of toss. Some believe it is taken from the Latin root (soccus) for ‘shoe’. But who cares?

The collection of data appeals to the underlying Asperger’s in all fanatical men (emotion-avoiding creatures we some of us share our lives with). Let them pore over their tables of meaningless figures and compare Lampard’s cross with the 1966 goal against Germany and fascinate each other with mind-bending abilities to recall even the most trivial nonsense. They store impressive statistics not dissimilar to those old log tables people had to use in mathematics (when sums were really hard); they know that Gary Ablett was the only scouser to ever win an FA cup for both Liverpool FC and Everton FC, they can name the five English players topping over £7 million in transfer fees yet never played for England, they can list 14 teams that don’t share their last name with any other without hardly a pause. But can they remember your anniversary?

If you haven’t understood any of what’s written here, enjoy the match and do try to keep the noise down.

...it is now.

©a1word