resolutionfree

Sunday conjures up thoughts of pub lunches around fires, with ale, potatoes, rosy cheeks, dogs and barbour jackets. Although we rarely get to do this (no dogs or barbour jackets), Sunday luckily has a second, much holier purpose. Football. I love going  with Kif and Gorgs et al. to the Waterpoet; a regal Spitalfields watering hole and watch whatever game is on. I imagine a primitive, Neanderthal me, millennia ago on a Sunday watching a muddy game of football between dinosaurs at the foot of a volcano. A primitive Kif, and largely unchanged Gorgs standing next to me mesmerised by the beautiful game and grunting in general appreciation at any semblance of good play. (Thank god we aren’t like that now!)

So when i woke up I crossed my fingers and half heartedly hoped that there wouldn’t be an unmissable game on the telly, that I’d have  to go to the pub to watch. Have to the way Kif usually means it. The fixture list pops up, it’s Southampton Vs Man Utd. I breathed. My liver was safe for another day, all thanks to the magic, fairytale fun of the FA Cup. Now if it was a triceretops nutmegging a T-rex I’d have been there pint in hand, spell broken, game over. It was such an easy day to not drink, it felt like a bye to the fourth round.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS