Seasonal Affective Disorder

WARNING: This post contains some very poorly mixed metaphors.

There was the Summer Olympics, and its heroic athletes bounding around in the (occasional piece of) sun. There were the gymnasts, who almost made me want buy a gym pass in order to get the body of Adonis –to go with my face, obviously. And the rowers and cyclists, whose endurance made my summer job playing with underprivileged children look like a walk in the park, which it technically was. But whatever.

However, autumn is slowly creeping upon us, the football season has returned, and with it a vast increase in my blood pressure, smoking and alcohol intake. It’s sad. And SAD.

Come on. Someone seriously has had to have made this pun before. I’ve gone from being almost proud of my country to swearing at men running after balls in the space of too weeks. All because of a new season. (Get it? I give up.)

Of course, it doesn’t help watching Liverpool play very well against City and still managing to ship two awful goals. Or watching us capitulate at West Brom like a drunk leaning on a wall that isn’t there.

What is it about football that turns me into an emotional and physical wreck, whilst other sports inspire me to get off my arse and stop playing so much bloody Minecraft.

It can’t just be supporting Liverpool can it?

Where does the brute irrationality of being a football fan come from? It’s a tricky question, as large portions of the game stem from such irrationality.

For one thing, I like to delude myself into thinking I’m largely different from the vast swathes of pugnacious imbeciles who spend their time shouting inanities on the comments sections of YouTube or newspaper websites – here’s looking at you, Daily Mail comments section, and the Telegraph, and the Guardian, and… well you get the picture.

I spend the majority of the off-season pretending not to care about transfer rumours whilst also spending ridiculous amounts of time reading them on Google Chrome’s incognito mode. If there are no cookies, it never happened (said the fat kid to his fragile self-esteem). This kind of behaviour is bad faith and self-deception of Sartrean proportions.

And it only worsens. I can tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it’s a ridiculous sham, a gross spectacle of consumerism and egoism rolled into a subscription-only mass opiate, but that doesn’t stop me punching a wall the next time Andy Carroll trips over his own shoelaces, does it?

I could stop watching it, but I’d only go and read the minute-by-minutes and sneak off and watch MoTD or 101greatgoals.

And that’s the problem with opiates – they say that goals are overrated but, to poorly wedge a Suárez chant into a heroin and football magazine-based pun, when Saturday comes, I just can’t get enough.

…you’re lucky I didn’t try and fit a Stranglers reference in there too.

 

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