I was seated next to some of the most incorrigible people imaginable. For example, I would have never noticed that one of the assistant referees was sporting an honest-to-God hard-on if it wasn’t for these people. I would have been blissfully unaware. Hard-ons are nice and all, but on the pitch, really? As you’re raising the offside flag?
For all we know, of course, there’s an entire kink associated with offside flags and their awesome power as, like, almighty extensions of the willie or something like that, and the ignorant are missing out.
The night ended well, though:
“And now that the score has reached 6 – 0, I propose that everyone on the team goes ahead and scores. And then the keeper can run out at the very end and score too.”
I tried to picture either Pjatov or Shovkovskiy doing that, and somehow, that ended up being funnier than anything else about the evening. Well, except for the hard-on.
I was wrong to stop watching football out of spite. A halfway decent football game on television opens up a portal that beams a certain atmosphere into any occupied space. It may be a tense atmosphere, it may be a “FUCK, I’M GOING TO GLUE BEERMATS TO MY EYES AND PRETEND THIS ISN’T HAPPENING” atmosphere, but you never feel empty when football is on. And there is great spiritual wisdom in that. Maybe.