Sky Sports Premier League coverage. Photo: Ben Radford - Sky Sports/Getty Images
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I never thought it was possible to have too much football

Eleven hours of the beautiful game on one day: is it enough?

Can you be too thin, too rich, too popular, too old, too handsome, too prolific, too lovely? In my long-legged life, I have been all of those things, oh yes. Not always easy.

But can you have too much football? Until yesterday I’d have said no: impossible, it’s the icing on the cherry.

My week totally revolves around football, organising my family, my work, my everything to fit. For example, tonight – Monday – I am going to give a talk to the NUJ Freelance branch at Friends House. Dunno why. I never do such things, but months ago I got an email from someone I don’t know asking nicely if I would. Months ago, you think today will never happen. First I checked to see there were no Prem games on telly tonight. Which is why I said yes.

But at the time I didn’t think I would feel like I do this morning, never having checked what was happening yesterday. I spent a total of 11 – repeat, 11 – hours watching football. Is this the way madness is?

Early doors, I watched Match of the Day, which I’d recorded. I go to bed at ten, so never watch it live, desperately avoiding all scores in order to have virgin, unsullied eyes. I can whizz on and miss all the studio stuff, daft talking points, pointless analysis. I have my own daft, pointless opinions.

At midday there came three live Prem games, one after the other, all on Sky Sports. Often there are days when there is only one live game, alas – then once every few weeks they bludgeon us over the head.

I watched every minute of each, though the moment one was over, I couldn’t remember the score, or who was playing, the time or day, what is the capital of England, who is the Prime Minister, yet I had been concentrating – really hard. Football might not rot the brain but it does deaden the senses.

That took me to 6.30pm and kick-off for the final of the Africa Cup of Nations, hurrah, between Ghana and Côte d’Ivoire. I didn’t watch the earlier rounds, as they were on Eurosport. By some oversight, it’s the only sports channel in the world I don’t subscribe to. But I’d discovered that the final was on ITV4. Not many people know there is such a channel, lurking away.

It went to extra time and penalties – which Côte d’Ivoire won – so it was precisely 30 seconds to ten o’clock when I collapsed into bed. Oh, you’re still alive, she said. Thought you’d popped it.

A whole day, glued to the football. Thank God for half-time. A chance to take sustenance and go to the lav.

Now, do I need therapy? Is there something lacking in my life? What am I escaping?

Growing up, I wouldn’t do this, as there was no live football on the telly except the Cup final. Instead, we crouched round the family radio, which was connected by a wire to the light socket above the kitchen table (how on earth did we not set fire to the house?), while my little heart pounded, willing on Scotland to beat England. Perhaps my deprived childhood is to blame for my overdosing today. That’ll be five guineas.

I couldn’t do it as a young dad either. Having three kids screaming round the house made it harder to crouch in my room with the door barricaded, though God, I did try. Anyway you didn’t get wall-to-wall TV until twenty years ago when the Prem began.

Now there’s only about five days or five minutes in the middle of August each year when it is impossible to find football on the telly somewhere. Should there be a health warning? To save the vulnerable from themselves. You get barren patches when there’s just one game a day – then suddenly, like yesterday, there’s four live games in a day. What can an addict do?

I could have stayed up even later and watched Barcelona, done 24 hours’ solid football and made the Guinness World Records.

The current sale of Prem games to TV is going to include Friday-night games as well. Brilliant. I’ll be dancing in the street, if I can find the strength, and the street.

Next week – can you have too much sex? A doctor writes ... 

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 13 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Assad vs Isis

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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war