John Betjeman wanted more sex. I want more football

Sex doesn’t take up that much time, unlike football: you get 90 minutes, a chance to change ends, extra time and then often a penalty shoot-out. Football, it does put in your day.

I used to think that when I grow old and have got no more work and no one wants me any more – when I’ve fallen down all the divisions, work-wise, and been reduced to writing a book for some Division Three North publisher – at least I will have football. I can just lie back and enjoy it, all the time.
 
John Betjeman, on his deathbed, said his one regret was not having had enough sex. My fear was not having had enough football. Sex doesn’t take up that much time, unlike football: you get 90 minutes, a chance to change ends, extra time and then often a penalty shoot-out. Football, it does put in your day.
 
Now I am going to die happy. For not only do I know what I’ll be doing, work-wise, for the next four years – some Premiership projects – but something else I never expected to happen has happened: a surfeit of lampreys. I mean Lampards. I mean football.
 
This was the other week: let me see. There was Monday-night football – gawd, I can’t remember which game, give me a chance, it was ages ago. On Tuesday and Wednesday, Chelsea, Man United, Man City and Arsenal were all in the Champions League. The ones that clashed, as they were on at the same time, I copied and watched the next morning, making sure I didn’t know the scores.
 
On Thursday, there was Swansea in Europe at six o’clock, followed by Spurs in Europe. Both excellent games and good victories. Then two games on Saturday and Sunday, finishing with Man City stuffing Man United. My cup overfloweth.
 
A few years ago, I might not have bothered much with a team like Swansea but now, with all the money in the Prem, even the socalled lowly teams have good players, who have cost real money. I am fascinated by Michu and wonder how long Swansea can keep him – and by Brady at Hull, Benteke at Villa. Every team has one decent player worth watching.
 
The other big change is that all the Euro group games are on the telly, four at a time, so you can record the clashes and also the top leagues of Europe, such as Spain, Germany, Italy and France. It costs a fortune in subscriptions but, come on, think how much you spend on other, more short-lived and passing pleasures.
 
I reckon that week – which was a beezer of a week, a proper cracker – I spent 44 hours watching football over seven days. That’s more than the average person’s working week. In the UK, it’s 40.5 hours. The average for Europe is 39.7 hours. In France, where they are frightful slackers, the average is only 35.6 hours a week.
 
Is it gross, pathetic, reprehensible, stupid, selfish, self-indulgent? All of the above. Fortunately,
 
I don’t watch any other TV. Can’t fit it in. If I do happen to catch something non-football, I have no idea what is going on. The crime dramas are too clever and confusing. The costume dramas: risible. The soaps: too quick. The comedy is unfunny, though I did laugh at Mrs Brown’s Boys. Just my level: obvious and vulgar, perfect for the average football fan. I like to think I do more work because of football. When I know something good is coming up, I rise extra early, work extra hard, in order to deserve it when finally I flop. I do cut corners all the time, never watching the preview stuff, the half-time chat, the studio discussions. I restrict myself to the game.
 
At half-time, I rush down to cut the grass or do some digging – or I totally surprise the family by talking to them. What a fright they get, having thought I’d passed away.
 
The coverage is so rich and so comprehensive these days that, even in a boring game, there is something to ponder. Especially the close-ups of the managers.
 
They are all actors, in that they know they are on show and every mannerism is captured. You see a hand go to pick a nose, then stop, realising. The ones that swig water all the time yet have not exerted themselves, sweated it out – surely they must need to go to the lavatory?
 
When it gets really, really boring, I start counting up the number of World Cups I might still live to see, given a good wind. I smile contentedly and sing to myself, “Heaven, I’m in heaven . . .”
John Betjeman, on his deathbed, said his one regret was not having had enough sex. Image: Getty

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 30 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory Game of Thrones

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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times