Remembrance Of Things Footy

Footy is here. It’s like an old friend returning. Like an old friend returning from overseas, returning after being away for three years. Like an old friend returning from overseas after three years who you didn’t know you were missing, and then they arrived and you saw them, and you knew you really had missed them and were really glad they were back again. Like an old friend returning from overseas after three years who you didn’t know you were missing, and who you actively bagged to several people while they were gone, for being a generally lame individual who you could take or leave really, as, you know they never did or said anything all that interesting, never made a contribution or said anything original or made you think. Like an old friend returned from overseas after three years who you didn’t know you were missing and bagged to anyone who would listen the whole time and impersonated while they were gone, for their social security money.

Or more like this. It’s like footy being back, after the off-season. It feels good.

It’s rugby league. It’s idiotic, and silly in quite an embarrassing sort of way. But there’s no need to be embarrassed as this is a pantomime for grown-ups. Already the footy cards are making their way into the slots appointed for them in the album issued by the Daily Telegraph. That’s quite childish in itself. And I’m more than willing to accept that this is a kind of escapism – perhaps all sport is: there are heroes and villains and you live vicariously through the activities of others, and as an adult there’s gambling, so you can feel like you have shared a win somehow, with the boys, or soften the blow of losing a little by betting on the other mob.

For kids there’s dressing up and colouring in and bragging and boasting about stuff you really don’t know about – and for adults there are jerseys and scarves, and bumper stickers, and smugly travelling to work on a Monday after a win, and in-depth discussions about statistics.

Whatever. It’s here.

Maybe this is merely somehow a symbol that the year has properly got going again, and we are a long way from the post-holiday/Summer period now. Or maybe that’s just me. If so, that’s fine too. If I’m partially pretending to embrace all this, as I could be, a little bit, maybe, then so what? The weather will cool down, the shirts and cufflinks will come out, and the smarter clothes, and things will seem better. More comfortable: it will be cosy in bed, not hot; Mr Mu will stay through the evening and into the morning with us; I shall feel in the mood to start reading Proust again; sweating and itching will quiet down; and the feeling of snuggling up on the lounge in trackies and watching Escape to the Country while the wind howls beyond the window is almost too delicious to contemplate, as we are not quite there. Yet. But I can almost taste the toasted sandwich with bacon and cheese and the accompanying glass of Guinness.

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Published in: on March 14, 2011 at 6:50 pm  Leave a Comment  

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