Kick It In The Balls

I used to like football. Well, perhaps 'like' is too strong a word - be able to tolerate a match for 90 minutes, smile and nod like only the hip girlfriends can, and successfully rattle off the illustrious offside rule when scrutinsed by tall boys who think that this one piece of knowledge gives them a lifetime membership to the testosterone club.

I hold my hands up because I can clearly see that I made a huge mistake. I was too nice at the beginning of this relationship. I am now completely surrounded by football, so much so that I truly believe if I stripped naked, painted myself green and ran around my house full-pelt pretending to be a tree caught in a hurricane my boyfriend would NOT notice. I will henceforth refer to my boyfriend as The Tall Boy.

The Tall Boy bought a new football game today. Not only does he want to play it, he wants to play online with his other crazed friends. Whilst watching a live football match on the telly. For many, many, many hours. Don't get me wrong, I am allowed to change the channel - only to have him go into the next room (we have far too many TV's), put the football on and probably call one of his friends to chat about the football and when did his girlfriend become such a boring cow?

Listen here, Tall Boy. Yes, I became slightly obsessed with Big Brother. But that only lasts a number of weeks. Football lasts forever. Big Brother lasted one hour. Football lasts forever. And don't pretend you didn't ask me what shenanigans were occurring if you happened to miss an episode of 'that-show-you-love-that-I-hate-but-actually-secretly-am-a-little-curious-Big-Brother'.

I am going to create the ultimate of reality shows for me and the Tall Boy. I am going to put a dozen lunatics in a house full of cameras for 2 months with nothing but a football to play with. Then finally perhaps we will both be happy with what is on TV.


The Fake Brunette