Ahhh, the comfort of the crowd on their feet applauding your efforts. Can there be a better embrace than to look around and see the appreciative response to your work...it makes it all, well, worthwhile.
...And if you believe that pish then you'll be telling me that Greece has a robust economy and that Jimmy Saville was a very tasteful dresser.
For "the crowd", read "audience"...for "the efforts", read "speech". Basically, that's all I've been doing for the last three months since I last blogged...bloody after-dinners. I've eaten everything from consomme through to cajun alligator and onwards to baked alaska as I traversed my way around the south rattling on about my career and doing impressions of Jose Mourinho, Alan Shearer and that Italian wanker from Strictly whose name escapes me. Don't get me wrong, the bread's been mighty fine, the craic good and they bloody know their way around a Merlot or Shiraz at the top tables but it's three months when the nearest I've come to live football was going down The Manor for a couple of pints and watching the Champions League with the guys.
I could tell you that I'm delighted with the possibility of a burgeoning career on the circuit and to be fair, I upstaged Tom O'Connor one night recently at a Businessman's do when I told him I could name that tune in three and then said " Get To Fuck!" - brought the bleedin' house down - but I'd be lying.
Truth is, I miss the football...REALLY miss it.
All I've been doing is putting Spraggsy through his paces before a match and then scratching my arse as Mac and Riv shout from the touchline for 90 minutes. I thought I'd have had a chance by now cos, believe me, nobody's changing their underwear before playing us. Twelve games into the season and the lads are struggling to stay mid-table and already been knocked out of a cup.
I can't say Spraggsy's been responsible for everything tallied up in the "goals against" column but, Jeezo, there's been at least half a dozen occasions when his indecision has cost us dear. He's not overly fond of the cross ball, struggles with the passback rule and generally seems as reliable as Michael Jackson's doctor.
Bitter? Me?
'Course I fuckin' am!
To be honest, and I know this is rich coming from me, I've genuinely thought of giving the whole thing up. I KNOW!! Mr it's-my-last-ever-season-anyway!!
But, I just never realised how much I would miss it all and I need to be involved.
So, there I was, picking the plastic out of my arse last Saturday for the home game against that shower hovering two points above us when the roof caved in....fuckin' big style an' all.
3-0 down in 11 minutes!! 5 at half-time....7 with 10 to go and 9 ( NINE?? FUCKIN' COUNT IT!!) at full-time.
Now, I've done a lot of wacky shit in my time, been on the end of some right doings but I've never, ever, not even in a kickabout with me mates, lost nine goals in a match.
The dressing room looked like the aftermath of a terrorist atrocity. The lads all just sat there, stunned. I wondered what they'd made of it. Somebody said Jeff Stelling had been pissing himself on Gillette Soccer Special and that Paul Merson, Charlie Nicholas and that scouse twat who played for his beloved Liverpool were running a sweep on the final score.
It wasn't meant to be like this for these boys...not with their future in the game. They saw themselves strolling off a bus at the Emirates, big as fuck headphones stuck to their heads, Adidas bags slung casually over their shoulders as they made their way towards the dressing rooms, the cameras following their faces as they prepared for Super Sunday...and now everybody on Sky were wetting their pants at the 9-0 humping.
I suppose I should have felt sorry for Spraggsy. It's unfair. They have to get past 10 other pricks before him. He wasn't responsible for all nine but...but...but as I saw him, slumped in his seat, dazed with the consequences and close to vomiting, I kept thinking one thing.....
....I'm BACK!
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