Today I let out a whoop in the middle of
the office. The last time I made
this noise at work was when got an American publisher for my novel. It was a very long time ago. So what was the cause of this sudden and
unusual outpouring of joy, you may
– like my astounded boss – be asking?
An offer for the latest (unwritten) novel; a lottery win; a
promotion? No, none of these. What gets me excited these days
is Frank, followed by Lampard over a large number 8 and the news that Chelsea
are offering him another contract.
Frank who? I hear you ask,
as well you might. As little as
three years ago, I’d be yawning with you, but since then, I came down with a chronic illness. I caught football.
What happened to me? I was a food writer, more
concerned with fancy restaurants than fancy footwork, happier in the kitchen
than on the touchline. I thought silverwear was cutlery and the only time I
went anywhere near Chelsea was to buy something frivolous from Heals..
Throughout my sons’ adolescence when they were avid supporters and went to matches
whenever they could, I was a sex columnist whose interest in balls had
absolutely nothing to do with kicking them. So how did I turn from an edgy and discerning forty-something,
with more shoes than Imelda and a wardrobe consisting solely of black natural
fibres, to a woman who actually owns, and worse, wears a shiny blue and gold,
polyester Chelsea Shirt. And
matching lucky pants?
You can blame it on love, or lust, at least
initially. When I met my current
partner he was already romantically involved with Madame Chelsea and her merry squad
of dwarves, - I mean athletic yes – but some of those guys are seriously short;
and just as we women spend those first months in a relationship frantically
trying to hide our crazy, you also pretend that there’s nothing you’d rather do
that freeze your Arsenal off in a stadium on a cold Saturday afternoon. On our
third date he took me to a match, put his hand on my backside as he was
‘steering’ me through the crowds into my seat, and the rest is history, an FA
Cup, the ‘double’, a Champions League Trophy, three – soon to be four managers,
and Drogba’s final goal.
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| David and his real mum.... |
Yes, I admit. Drogba played a bit part in my sudden conversion. The ground had been laid by my sons and
their Russian Doll kits going from age 5 up to around 15, the flags, the
programs, the match stats, and the seriously cute Ruud Gulitt. However, I was banned from matches when
they were young for my tendency to try and sing along with the songs. They also accused me of being a jinx, because the team
lost every time I attended a game.
Thankfully my years as a supporter’s WAG changed all that, or I may well
have been sent off at that very first match, but we beat Cardiff – 4-1. That’s four opportunities to kiss and
hug someone you don’t know very well in front of 41,000 witnesses watching ‘fit’
men running up and down yards from your face. Win win win.
However, just as in the beginning I was
pretending that I loooooved football, my partner too hid the depths of his obsession.
Though he struggles to say he loves me, he had no trouble expressing passion
for the – even to a converted me – deeply unloveable John Terry and goody two
boots, Saint Frank of the Lampard.
He could wax lyrically about goal averages and vintage players but just
about manage to tell me I looked nice
if I turned up in a tight attacking dress with a deep cleavage defence. However, back then I didn’t know he
also followed the youth team and even the ladies team, and not because of their
legs. Now he makes no
attempt to hide the fact that when he’s ‘answering emails’ he’s really on the
Chelsea Website, but I have had to tell him there’s a limit when he starts
quoting statistics.
Nevertheless, I do now turn straight to the
back page of the paper for the sports section, and every other week -sometimes
even on a school night, -there I am in my seat, just behind the
placard-bearing, Mrs Lampard-is-a-Legend in the stadium. I not only gained a lover, but also
season ticket. As well as the
Premier League football shirt and scarf, three flags and a Chelsea chef’s hat,
I have the football thermals, the all in one rain poncho and a pair of leather
trousers especially to keep me warm on the terraces. I know all the words to ‘Down at the Shed’ and I clap and give
the open arm salute to the Liquidator. Where I once refused to be interviewed
by Chelsea TV before an important Premier League match because I had no idea
who we were playing or the name of anybody on our team, I now recognize them by
number . It took me six months to work out that when the linesman waved his
flag it indicated the direction of play, but I can now explain the offside
rule. I am probably the only woman
in the country to have a soft spot for Ashley Cole despite his penchant for
sexting his block and tackle. I
confess even dreamt I asked David Luiz out on a date though, I’m old enough to
be his grandmother. And he
accepted. That’s what makes it a
dream. I was so happy I woke my
partner up at 5am to tell him about it.
He wasn’t shocked. Gosh,
even I might have a sex dream about David Luiz, he said.
And now they’re keeping Frank for another
season. My Europa League Cup
runneth over. Nothing beats the
sheer excitement of being in the stadium, cheering and jeering with tens of
thousands of my closest friends.
Of course the language can be vicious, but where else can you go from
fully expressed, absolute despair to unbridled exhilarated shrieking joy in the
space of three seconds? And all
for something – true blue supporters look away now – that in the great scheme
of things doesn’t really matter? Okay, yes it matters, but it’s not
eviction, redundancy or terminal illness.
It’s just two hours of sheer escapism.
.
