I was looking forward to the three Euro matches, all on roughly at the same time, involving Arsenal, Newcastle and Leeds, wondering which Sky would choose. I wanted them all to win, but had no real favourite; I like Bobby Robson and David O'Leary, as human beings, and as managers, so I wanted them to do well. I go to Arsenal and know their team well, but they were easily ahead on the first leg, so their game didn't sound so exciting. Any road up, hurrah for a bit of live football, around which to organise my evening, my work, my life. You can't beat a bit of footer to look forward to.

So was I spitting when I turned on Sky and found that Sky Sports 1, 2 and 3 had no live football. What a swizz. After all the money I pay Cable London. I got out my last bill and it clearly says: "All Sky Sports - £27.99." I rang cable and screamed at a poor bloke with a nice Scottish voice sitting in some electronic battery farm, probably in the Hebrides. He said: "Ah yes, but we don't provide Sky Extra." I said surely "All Sky Sports" must include Sky Extra? "No sir, they don't let us have it." I slammed the phone down and rang Sky. Screamed at them as well. Then I rang ONdigital, whom I hate for its poncey capital letters. It's currently offering a digital box free, but no, they didn't have any of the three Euro matches either. Oh Gawd. I hate them all. Hate, hate, hate. Each call took for ever, listening to idiot messages and music.

I will break soon, I really will. I can only take so much of being manipulated, being treated like a halfwit. They have no real interest in football. What happens is that some potty channel or TV company you've never heard of pays a fortune for the rights to certain matches, purely in order to make you subscribe to their stupid service or buy their horrible dishes or hideous boxes. You're then landed with a year's sub for loads of shite programmes you're never going to watch. Then when the next big match comes round, they haven't got it. Some other chancer has nicked it.

I rang our two nearest pubs. One didn't have it, but at the other a barman said yes, they did have football on, it looked like the Arsenal game, just started. I grabbed my coat and ran like hell. It was the Dartmouth Arms, just one street away, but I have been in it only once in 36 years. The last time was ten years ago, when I went to watch Wally Fawkes play his clarinet with his trio. Could be playing in heaven now. But not Wally. He's going strong, cartooning away - as Trog - for the Sunday Telegraph. I often see him in our street with his shopping.

The pub has changed since 1989. Gone all modern - ie, all old-fashioned. None of that plastic nonsense or jukeboxes or blokes with beer bellies standing at the bar. It's thirtysomething women smoking and laughing at the bar, battered leather couches, shelves full of books, nice fire, wood-panel walls, veggie dishes, amusing Italian bread. The TV was a small one, high on a shelf. I ordered a cappuccino and a whisky and got a seat in front of the TV. After ten minutes, my neck was killing me with looking up. I moved back a bit. Which made it hard to watch. Close-ups I could see. But not the rest.

The bar was only half full, and most people were ignoring the TV. When Arsenal got a goal, no one cheered. Strange, as Arsenal is geographically the nearest club. A young bloke in front of me on the couch with his girlfriend made a face at the TV. The girl was practically on top of him, but I could tell he was trying to watch the football. I like a chap with the right priorities. Arsenal got a second goal, by which time the girl was almost down his throat, but he turned round towards me and groaned. "Fucking Arsenal."

I looked around. Nobody else seemed to be watching. A couple of girls at the bar had glanced at it from time to time, but they were mainly talking and laughing. At half-time, I asked the barman if perhaps he could change it to Leeds or Newcastle, to see how they were getting on. There were obviously no Arsenal fans present.

"She is," he said, nodding towards one of the girls at the bar.

"No, she's not," I said. "She's been standing gassing. Anyway, she's just one girl, what does she matter?"

"It's not just one girl," he said. "She's the boss . . ."

Oops. Sorry I spoke. So that was that. I finished my drink and went home. My neck is still stiff and my eyes sore from straining, and I'm livid about the state of football on television. Chris Smith, what are you doing? Forget that Royal Ballet mess. Can't you sort out this football mess?

It's chaos at the moment, and it's changing all the time, with different deals, different languages, so complicated and confusing. There should be some sort of tracker system, the way they do with unit trusts or shares. I'd pay a fee to someone to move my subscription around, find the best deal with the most games, without me having to bother about keeping up with all the latest scams, weaselly words and tricksy offers.

If our football authorities had any sense, instead of being blinded by short-sighted greed, they would not have allowed any of this to happen. There should be one dedicated sports channel, showing only football, and it should be owned by football - by the FA, the Premier League and the clubs together. They would run it, control it, take all the profits. They already make a fortune from TV, but don't tell me that Sky and cable and ONdigital and the rest of them are not making even bigger profits, purely on the back of football. Otherwise why are they doing it?

Once again, we fans have been caught in the middle. But I suppose we deserve to get conned. We're all stupid, when it comes to football . . .

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website