Being a football fan is a difficult thing to explain to those who have no interest in the game or sport in general.
What makes a man (or woman - it is open even to the fairer sex these days) travel up and down the country spending hundreds & hundreds of pounds a year just to watch a group of men (or women - it is even open to the fairer sex these days) kick a ball around?
Last night, I was begging the question of myself after a miserable trip to the arsehole of the home counties - Luton. Not only did I watch my team concede two goals in injury time to lose 2-1, I also had to walk back to the train station and almost get a kicking from the local ferality.
Upon my safe return home to the calm and peaceful streets of Bloomsbury borders later that evening, Fantastic Mrs Ox-to-be listened intently as I recounted the woeful bloodcurdling tale of near-terror that was my walk back to Luton station after the game.
I could see the confusion in her eyes. Why was her betrothed putting himself in these dangerous and invidious situations when he could have been at home watching TV with her instead? Why indeed. Wanting to spend your evening like this is a pretty irrational thing to want to do with hindsight after a disappointing, cold and miserable night.
That's hindsight though, had we won 3-0 and not encountered a near beating from some feral youths, I'd not be writing this post now. So would I go again? Yes. Would I take the train? Probably not.
I probably made it sound more like South Central Los Angeles than the slightly skanky commuter town in Bedfordshire that it actually is. Truth be told though it was a rather unpleasant experience. Coming also after the abject dejection of a last minute loss in the game itself, it really was quite a fuck of an evening.
A more light-hearted entry next time peeps. :o)