Right now football is not "a funny old game"; it's the fist in my face, the knife in my guts and the steel toe cap boot in my genital area.
My football club is Ipswich Town. I live in Devon.
It's not surprising that I rarely get to see Ipswich play. Maybe it means I am not die-hard in my support for the Tractor Boys, but travelling 800 miles every other weekend is not something I can afford to do – financially or mentally.
Yesterday, September the 26th 2009, I readied myself with a Gin and Tonic (the drink of men), a large, on-offer, bar of Mint Aero and donned my Ipswich shirt from the bag of clothes I am currently living out of; Ipswich were playing live on the BBC. Live on the BBC!
Before half time I had turned over and got hooked on a piece of useless and pointless television called “Beach Patrol”. On this rare and should-have-been-beautiful occasion I decided to watch a man being resuscitated as another man was rescued at sea, while another man was removed from a Californian beach for being drunk, instead of watching my team put in the most embarrassing and disheartening performance I’d seen since the whole of Portman Road chanted Carlton Palmer’s name as he completed his hat-trick against us for Sheffield Wednesday in the early 90s. Horrible.
What made this particular performance and result (we lost 4 - 0) even worse was the occasion. At half-time (when we were already 3-0 down) our famous (locally) North Stand was re-named the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, after the legend that caused and created so much joy at the club in the 70s and early 80s.
It was the perfect situation for a classic game of football to speak volumes in celebrating a brilliant man, and the influence he had on the ‘wonderful’ game. It was the perfect moment for The Tractor Boys to turn this poor start to the season around. One of the two clubs stepped up to the challenge…it wasn’t us.
My evening was ruined. I was embarrassed.
I don’t feel guilty or bad about turning over. I feel a little silly for getting absorbed in some rubbish programme about lifeguard that wasn’t Baywatch, but I don’t feel bad about turning over. It was painful. And I hurt. This is the pain of football. This is the pain of being an Ipswich Town supporter in the 2009/2010 season.
Roy Keane is quickly losing the last remaining dribble of support as the manager to turn our club’s fortunes around; Norwich fans are drooling at the prospect of being able to bat our relegation related abuse back at us come the end of the season; and my girlfriend has still not forgiven me for spending a whole evening not talking to her because “it’s only a game.” Which is true…but so is Boxing, and if you’re not very good, it hurts.
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
a snap shot type picture painting of a modern day Icarus
Just another day.
Today is not so different. The glaring sun shines down on the busy streets, sharing the sky with nothing but one small, mournful, black fluffy cloud. And people continue their lives.
On the ground, a man casually leans against a wall as a Sheppard would his crook. His body language screams volumes to the girl blushing, as they engage in flirtatious banter, and playful looks. His manner works wonders and she salutes with one hand, to shadow her eyes from the beaming sun. Out in bloom are rose tinted sunglasses as the busy streets stir with the tide. A stranger on a motorbike rides by and sounds his horn. Many heads turn but only one-person waves to yesterday’s lover, or the one that got away.
A man ploughs the road for litter and trash. Today’s fish’n’chip paper blows by in the wind, ignoring yesterday’s news.
Over the street, café-goers take advantage of the sun and seats outside. It is full with tourist whispers and local’s gossip, chitchatting and unawares, everyone continuing in their lives.
There is a woman at work sitting sombre at her desk, considering a past reality. She thinks of a life of laughter, love and dreams. On the floor above, her boss does the same. Head is in his hands, elbows on the table; his mind is heavy with regret.
If only they knew.
On the roof above them all stands a boy, a stranger, a future myth.
The people below are miniscule to his height. They hover and slide like creatures from another time. Looking down from god’s eyes, he has found the edge of the world, and it is his, if only for today. For miles and miles, there are nothing but rooftops and noise. The voice in his head has gone. Feeling the strong, warm breeze on his body, the boy sheds slow motional tears. He is sad to be leaving but glad to have found a reality that can only be his. There is a simple smile on his blank face and a heavy glaze over his eyes as he waits for the change in the wind. That will be his cue.
Elsewhere his dad is in a panic, regretting letting go. Blaming himself as a father would. He created the world around his son and he made only one escape. Talented and creative he made his world, he made the wings and now…now the boy wants to fly.
Opening his wings as far as they can stretch, he glances at the sun.
Then he pauses.
Finally, he sees the world from where he wants to be. High above the earth he feels alive. For one beautiful moment, his realities combine. He thinks he has found the answer.
Flying soon turns into falling as his hit runs out. The wings have gone. The burning sun melts his tears but he feels no regret. He feels no feelings at all. In his mind, he is as light as a feather. Detached from its wing he floats with a gentle certainty.
From the ground, an object plummets from the sky. Spinning and spiralling, it is somersaulting out of control. But nobody notices.
After an age, or just a few seconds, the fast fall’s reality sets itself in a sea of stone.
The next morning the café finds its morning crowd. The ploughman reads the greased up chip paper, and the girl salutes from the man’s bedroom window. As the powerful sun starts another day.
Today is not so different. The glaring sun shines down on the busy streets, sharing the sky with nothing but one small, mournful, black fluffy cloud. And people continue their lives.
On the ground, a man casually leans against a wall as a Sheppard would his crook. His body language screams volumes to the girl blushing, as they engage in flirtatious banter, and playful looks. His manner works wonders and she salutes with one hand, to shadow her eyes from the beaming sun. Out in bloom are rose tinted sunglasses as the busy streets stir with the tide. A stranger on a motorbike rides by and sounds his horn. Many heads turn but only one-person waves to yesterday’s lover, or the one that got away.
A man ploughs the road for litter and trash. Today’s fish’n’chip paper blows by in the wind, ignoring yesterday’s news.
Over the street, café-goers take advantage of the sun and seats outside. It is full with tourist whispers and local’s gossip, chitchatting and unawares, everyone continuing in their lives.
There is a woman at work sitting sombre at her desk, considering a past reality. She thinks of a life of laughter, love and dreams. On the floor above, her boss does the same. Head is in his hands, elbows on the table; his mind is heavy with regret.
If only they knew.
On the roof above them all stands a boy, a stranger, a future myth.
The people below are miniscule to his height. They hover and slide like creatures from another time. Looking down from god’s eyes, he has found the edge of the world, and it is his, if only for today. For miles and miles, there are nothing but rooftops and noise. The voice in his head has gone. Feeling the strong, warm breeze on his body, the boy sheds slow motional tears. He is sad to be leaving but glad to have found a reality that can only be his. There is a simple smile on his blank face and a heavy glaze over his eyes as he waits for the change in the wind. That will be his cue.
Elsewhere his dad is in a panic, regretting letting go. Blaming himself as a father would. He created the world around his son and he made only one escape. Talented and creative he made his world, he made the wings and now…now the boy wants to fly.
Opening his wings as far as they can stretch, he glances at the sun.
Then he pauses.
Finally, he sees the world from where he wants to be. High above the earth he feels alive. For one beautiful moment, his realities combine. He thinks he has found the answer.
Flying soon turns into falling as his hit runs out. The wings have gone. The burning sun melts his tears but he feels no regret. He feels no feelings at all. In his mind, he is as light as a feather. Detached from its wing he floats with a gentle certainty.
From the ground, an object plummets from the sky. Spinning and spiralling, it is somersaulting out of control. But nobody notices.
After an age, or just a few seconds, the fast fall’s reality sets itself in a sea of stone.
The next morning the café finds its morning crowd. The ploughman reads the greased up chip paper, and the girl salutes from the man’s bedroom window. As the powerful sun starts another day.
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