My significantly better half has tarnished the family name in this part of middle England. It is unlikely that we shall be made welcome into village halls, summer balls, fetes and Morris dancer competitions in Staffordshire for the foreseeable future. A black cloud has descended and if the practise was still in existence we would be in the stocks on the high street for a week. People and even small children would throw rotten vegetables at us while passing. The vicar would chastise us and may even break into prayer. Beer would turn as the stench of our aura infiltrated every room. This woman knows no bounds. She has dared to raise her voice, to show her passion. While watching football.
Not Premiership or FA Cup. Not even Barcelona or Real Madrid. Instead the mighty Under 8 Sunday League football. In the cold. With a flask of coffee. On a frozen pitch. These conditions were the catalyst that took her from zero to hero and swiftly back again. All in the space of an hour or so. And with such noise that would have landed us in the stocks. Now lets be sensible. For those who know her this behaviour will come as little surprise. With her pint size comes a Latin temperament that can reduce grown men to tears. Many have witnessed her passion and heard her sometimes - most of the time - loud and insightful comment on everyones performance. Couple this with her knowledge and passion for football and the fact that our son was playing and you have a recipe for, um, well, disaster? Humour? Um, candid camera? Don't know to be honest but not having been there for this one I can only expect a club disciplinary letter in the mail. You see here its so not PC to have any passion because its 'all about having fun and not about winning'.
What a crock of shit. Winning is fun isn't it? Here is my little bit of opinion. Yours may differ. If you teach a generation of children that's its not important to win then they will stop trying to win and stop believing that they can be better. If you teach a generation of children that's its OK not to try harder because they'll get a game anyway then don't expect them to do any different. They will carry this tainted view into their adult life and we will be left with nations of losers. Obsessed with high visibility jackets, health and safety, equality and tree hugging. Or has that happened already?
On a lighter note and only to compound my better half's misery for the day, the chosen one, the 12 year old who thinks that she might be eighteen also lost in her netball match. And then, good news and the result of the day, Nadal lost to Djokovich in the Aussie Open final. What a fine day it has been for Mrs C.
And finally. When someone tells you that age is just a number you should immediately extend your arm and bitch slap them. Its not just a number and I have the scars of war to prove it. I have the limp of a veteran, the thousand yard stare of someone who has seen more that he should. The twitch has returned. Tonight shall be torrid. Yes today I played squash. For the first time in more than half a year. With an outside temperature of 1 degrees and an inside temperature of I swear 148 degrees I ran and stumbled across the vastness of a squash court hoping, no preying, that my racquet thingy would connect with the ridiculously small ball. It did occasionally. Fortunately. With my heart pumping its way out of my mouth the game finally came to an end. And not a minute too soon. I had miraculously won. I think my opponent knew that my other half needed some positive cheer.For that I thank him. We shall be grateful for some time. We shall worship his feet until the next time we meet in the hallowed halls of the leisure centre.
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