My week in football

It’s been a week where Liverpool have, to put it lightly, not lived up to the expectations of a team that has had squidoodles of money unceremoniously rammed into it over the last while. The clubs travails remind me of a passage in ‘The Hobbit’ where our illustrious heroes find themselves in a dark wood (The Premier League) and they can see the twinkling lights of merrymaking (Entry to the Champions League) in the distance. However, each time they arrive near the party, the lights vanish and they find themselves once again in the dark only for the party to have sprung up at a different point in the forested murk just on the edge of vision. Someone was moving the goalposts on them, ironically something which Liverpool may have benefitted from this season.

For the QPR capitulation I was at a five a side so did not watch, a decision that was vindicated when my chauffeur Fergal informed me of the score and manner of defeat through the partition in his limousine. The disappointment of the match was added to the fact that toward the end of the game I had done that pass where the goalie gives it to you short, you’re so tired that when you attempt to find a pass it clunks off your shin and into the path of some glitzy forward who sticks it in the goals while putting gel in his hair. I did this twice in thirty seconds.

For the Wigan match I was propped up on my bed squinting at my computer screen. I spent the first half convincing myself that it was infact a football match and not some form of blurry tetris (due to pixelation) that was bizarrely accompanied by the voice of a British commentator. My friend Thomas popped over for the second half and opted to sit on the end of my bed to watch the match, which I found a bit odd because I was sitting on the other bit of the bed, but I didn’t say anything, we just sat in silence as Wigan romped to victory like the relegation steamroller they are. I got Thomas a pint of water then, it’s hot weather.

Later on in the week I went to see a one man show about a guy who had gone to great lengths to basically commit fraud in a legal way by cashing a fake cheque for 95 grand in some bank in America. At the intermission my friend Brian asked who he should text to get the score of the Chelsea Benfica match. I said he should text Andre Villas Boas but that he mighn’t actually be watching it. He text his mum because she has Sky.

When I got home I watched the highlights and was pleased to see Torres set up Kalou and then do the most enthusiastic ‘get in’ movement I’ve seen in quite a while. He was a monument of gritted teeth, Iberian highlights and a single hairband as he proceeded to punch a non-existant entity right in it’s invisible guts. I then day dreamed of him playing back at Liverpool with Suarez and the pair of them being great friends.

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