How did a Dynamo Kyiv freak like me get roped into caring about the Premiership? Oh, I know, it’s because of a man. When the Master died on the season finale of “Doctor Who” this year, he wiggled his eyebrows and said “always the women.”
In my case, it’s always the men.
The problem with the Premiership is that it’s an addiction. It’s also, as your snobbish friends will tell you, so very unbecoming. Football is all about sweaty sexists and their WAGs (themselves a sexist phenomenon – although whether or not WAGs are victims or villains is continuously up for debate). And the beauty of it is, supposedly, a shallow and sexualized kind of beauty (Ahmadinejad and the indefatigable Ann Althouse can do a roundtable on whether or not the curved trajectory of the ball resembles the curve of a woman’s breast, yummmmm). And sexualized is bad, bad, bad – only girls with frilly knickers and equally frilly brains go for sexualized, or so I’m constantly told.
Every year, I have to “come out” as a football fan. Specifically as a Premiership fan, since no one expects it. Ukrainian football often gets a free pass for being poor and exotic and, for some bizarre reason, well-meaning people think it has to be vaguely political as well. But rooting for Chelsea means rooting for the oppressor. Not to mention the fact that fellow fans treat Chelsea like the Yankees (I did have a Manchester fan admit to me once, in a pub and after a copious amount of drinks, no less, that “Chelsea deserved it after all these years” – although perhaps I was getting another free pass, this time because I’m female).
My main problem this year has to do with the fact that Lampard suddenly looks way too much than my boyfriend’s younger brother, making me feel like a total creep.