Headaches are a pain – and if you think that’s self-evident, wait till you hear this.
I’ve had one all day.
I’ve also not drunk coffee in the last 48 hours, and seemed to remember hearing that a sudden lack of caffeine could induce headaches for a while. Thought I’d research it, so scanned t’Internet for “caffeine withdrawal headache”. Eventually I came across a link to a page which promised to tell me what I wanted to know.
Caffeine Withdrawal Headache – Definition, it said. And the definition of Caffeine Withdrawal Headache?
“Headaches resulting from caffeine withdrawal”, apparently.
And that was it.
My enthusiasm for football seems to be draining away these days.
Yesterday I traipsed down to Southampton for the QPR match. It’s terrible. You feel obliged to visit new stadia, even if it’s only to witness the ritual slaughter of your own family.
I parked up in windswept Woolston, bought a couple of Kentish apples the size of small melons, and crunched my way across the Itchen Bridge, a spectacular structure spanning the Solent.
You get a good view of the new St Mary’s stadium from here, and I stopped halfway across to assess the place. When Simon Inglis comes to update his fabulous classic Football Grounds of Great Britain, perhaps the greatest work in English literature, what will be left for him to drool over? Hillsborough at a push perhaps. Not much else. Where is this century’s Archibald Leitch?
More interesting than the view of Southampton’s boxy new ground was the long line of posters and stickers along the balustrade urging me to call the Samaritans before leaping to my death. Or instead of leaping to my death, I suppose. It didn’t raise my optimism levels in advance of the match.
And after half an hour in which our goal was battered by Southampton’s 7 foot forward line, life was looking even bleaker.
But then something odd happened, and in virtually our first attack of the game, the redoubtable Danny Shittu found himself unmarked on the 6 yard line, and we were in front.
Chim chiminey
Chim chiminey
Chim chim cher-oo!
‘Oo needs Sol Campbell when we’ve got Shitt-ooo?
The Saints were suddenly punctured and useless, and despite equalising shortly afterwards, they never truly gained the upper hand again. The match continued to fizz its way to an entertaining 1-1 draw, and we went home pretty happy.
So why am I feeling my eagerness for all this receding? Nothing much to do with the football but the peripheral awfulness. We sat immediately behind a handful of teenies who spent most of the game on their feet, swearing loudly, and making what I have to presume were well-practised masturbatory gestures at the Southampton fans sitting just across the gangway.
I hate these kids, and this behaviour, with a passion. It saddens and depresses me, and makes me want to stop going.
Why does it make me uncomfortable? Is it just my cantankerous, middle-aged grumpy side oozing forth? No. I hate them because they are a constant reminder of what I used to be.
Thing is, I go to football to escape reality, not to drown in it.
Now where did I put that Samaritan’s number?
