Sunday, 2 January 2011

Chelsea 3- 3 Aston Villa

I admit I haven't been watching my team of late, just listening on the radio. But today in the Birdcage I was transfixed once again, and so were the rest of them. For at least 60 minutes my team of forty years was woeful, amateur, almost comically inept. I could not believe what I was watching, how the wheels had well and truly fallen off, how glory turns to dust, and, most importantly, I began SHOUTING again. They don't like swearing in the old fashioned Birdcage, but I couldn't help it, most others couldn't either. Simplistic discourse as follows:

'WHO ARE YOU!!!!!?'
'I'm the landlady, shut up'
(But with worse language)

Then of course the tragedy of life would play itself out in front of our eyes. Terry scores the obvious winner with a minute of so to go, Terry is king once again, Terry the saviour; tears of redemption. They have found themselves once more, they hug the coach, they nearly knock him over, such is the relief. Then of course Villa score a sitter. Oh John Terry's face, my face, everybody's faces. Shakespeare couldn't have written better hubris. And with that, now with my team as definite underdroggs and the affirmation of the ancient gods, I regained my faith in football.

(PS My dad supports Aston Villa, he's 89)
(PPS That's me with my dad's 'works' rose growing cup, curiously modeled on the FA cup c1970)

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