Monday, 11 April 2011

Rudy: 'Worms! I just 8-1! Hahaha!'

Eagle-eyed readers may notice there's no picture credit this week - which means I must have dusted down the long-neglected camera, exercised the shutter and experimented with aperture openings. That's what spring does to us - the excitement sends us ker-razy. Just ask the Robin, nicknamed Rudy by my housemate, who does not shut up when the sun shines upon his teeny weeny worm-accommodating beak.

But this blog ain't about Rudy. He is a metaphor, you see, albeit a slightly tenuous one. Allow me to explain. Rudy is a Robin, right? So far, so good. And he's singing, yeah? Like football fans do, normally when they're having fun and not at the windswept Kassam Stadium in January chewing on an icy conglomeration of beefy entrails. The Robins, it just so happens, is the nickname of the football team I love - Cheltenham Town (which, if you're one of my longer-term followers, you know already). Only the Saturday before last, us Cheltenham fans weren't singing. We had lost 8-1 to Crewe Alexandra.

I would have blogged about it last week, but the pain and embarrassment were too much to bear, like a phall and buttery pilau rice after three tins of Special Brew. Before I continue to recount these feelings of despair, though, I should clarify that I didn't make the trip to Gresty Road. No, I'm not that stupid. What do you take me for? Cheltenham's season ended two months ago after a rather painful and winless run that saw us plummet to 15th in the League Two table. This is the most boring position in the whole of football - the lowest tier in the Football League with nothing to play for; we're not going to go up, we're not going to go down. The players might as well take five months off and be done with it.

As it happens, this is precisely what they did - only instead of jetting off to Benidorm or Kavos they caught the coach to Crewe and walked around a field for 90 minutes getting laughed at by the locals, occasionally putting their hands up in the air when they remembered what they believed the offside rule was. I don't know why they thought this would be a fun day out - perhaps their narcissism extends to some kind of humiliation fetish, a la Adolf Hitler voluntarily being slapped in the face by his niece on a semi-regular basis. Having been suitably satisfied, the players' guilt set in on the journey home. It was announced via Twitter that they would pay for a supporters' coach to the Lincoln away game, which induces about as much excitement as a headbutt from a farting Ann Widdecombe.

So, a small-but-noticeable portion of sick formed in my throat when Spurs fans complained about losing 4-0 to Real Madrid in the Champions League quarter final last week. The CHAMPIONS LEAGUE QUARTER FINAL, for crying out loud. Having been afflicted (I blame you, Dad, and you, Uncle Nick), with an unbreakable love for one of the country's worst professional football teams, one that will never reach the heights of even the Championship in my lifetime, I can only assume that this must feel as good as a night in with Cheryl Cole circa 2008 and winning the Lottery (not quite the jackpot, no, but perhaps five numbers. Not with the Bonus Ball, neither, that would be too greedy - this would be semi final worthy, I would suggest).

Right, that feels better now that's out of my system. I'm escaping the country for three weeks, so they'll be no blogging from me for a little while. And possibly never again - I'm going to India, don't you know, to 'find myself' and the like. The main reason for travelling, though, is to avoid the Royal Wedding, which is about as exciting as a headbutt from a farting Ann Widdecombe (there's that image again, for your subconscious viewing pleasure. Twenty rupees says you'll dream about it tonight). Toodles.

No comments:

Post a Comment