Damn, blast and other profanities that I can’t use in case this gets stuck in a spam filter.
I thought I’d kicked the habit. I’d been hurt too often. Led to believe that “this time it would be different” only to be let down so hard you wonder if you’ll ever stand up again, let alone allow yourself to fall in love. But that old devil really does “get behind you and give you the shove”. Again. And again.
I’ve fallen in love with football. Again.
It was hard not to love football in our house. (Or hate it.) Dad only ever communicated in football language. “Pass!” he’d grunt as the gravy stopped before it got to him. “That foul has cost you Saturday” he’d say when I came home beyond the designated hour to be banned from going to the Palais at the weekend. Or “Why didn’t you move out the way quicker?” when my brother hit me with his pea shooter.
You might not know this; as well as supporting The Dons, all Aberdonians support Man U (or “Manchester United” as we knew them), mainly because of Dennis Law and Alex Ferguson. But when a gorgeous, wee Northern Irish lad appeared on the scene in 1964, every female Aberdonian from 6 to 60 took a renewed interest in Aberdeen’s second team.
Oh God how I loved him. While school pals donned their walls with David Cassidy and Donny Osmond, mine were covered with George Best (or “Georgie” as we knew him). George Best in his number 11 shirt, George Best in his number 7 shirt, George Best with some gorgeous blonde (who bore a ‘similar’ resemblance to me – in my dreams). George Best on the front pages pictured above his perpetual comment – “I just want to play football.” What he really meant was “I’d give it all up tomorrow for just one kiss from Lorraine Forrest.” (Or “Lorraine Forrest-Turner” as people know me now.)
Okay, so strictly speaking I was more in love with Georgie than football but it had the same effect. I adored and despised football in equal portions. Loved it when he was doing well and wished I’d never even heard of him when it all went pear-shaped. (Or in Georgie’s case, barrell-shaped.) It was only when I finally saw him play at Pittodrie in 1979, during his brief, and some might say disastrous time, with Hibs, that I finally realised that my love would always be unrequited…Yes, I was the only one in the Beach End cheering him on – as others laughed!!!! So cruel. So, so cruel.
Not to worry – I still had Scotland! Oh, was I in love then? What do you mean you don’t remember when Scotland were REALLY GOOD? No? Oh well. Never mind. It didn’t last very long.
But eventually having replaced Georgie and Joe Jordan (honestly, he was gorgeous with his teeth in!) with some real life drunken womanisers - and having watched Scotland shrink to not even qualifying for the European cup, I finally shook the habit and learned NOT to pin my hopes and dreams on a football match. Besides, I had my own share of love affairs to keep me in enough joy and pain to last a lifetime.
I thought I’d kicked the habit. I’d been hurt too often. Led to believe that “this time it would be different” only to be let down so hard you wonder if you’ll ever stand up again, let alone allow yourself to fall in love. But that old devil really does “get behind you and give you the shove”. Again. And again.
I’ve fallen in love with football. Again.
It was hard not to love football in our house. (Or hate it.) Dad only ever communicated in football language. “Pass!” he’d grunt as the gravy stopped before it got to him. “That foul has cost you Saturday” he’d say when I came home beyond the designated hour to be banned from going to the Palais at the weekend. Or “Why didn’t you move out the way quicker?” when my brother hit me with his pea shooter.
You might not know this; as well as supporting The Dons, all Aberdonians support Man U (or “Manchester United” as we knew them), mainly because of Dennis Law and Alex Ferguson. But when a gorgeous, wee Northern Irish lad appeared on the scene in 1964, every female Aberdonian from 6 to 60 took a renewed interest in Aberdeen’s second team.
Oh God how I loved him. While school pals donned their walls with David Cassidy and Donny Osmond, mine were covered with George Best (or “Georgie” as we knew him). George Best in his number 11 shirt, George Best in his number 7 shirt, George Best with some gorgeous blonde (who bore a ‘similar’ resemblance to me – in my dreams). George Best on the front pages pictured above his perpetual comment – “I just want to play football.” What he really meant was “I’d give it all up tomorrow for just one kiss from Lorraine Forrest.” (Or “Lorraine Forrest-Turner” as people know me now.)
Okay, so strictly speaking I was more in love with Georgie than football but it had the same effect. I adored and despised football in equal portions. Loved it when he was doing well and wished I’d never even heard of him when it all went pear-shaped. (Or in Georgie’s case, barrell-shaped.) It was only when I finally saw him play at Pittodrie in 1979, during his brief, and some might say disastrous time, with Hibs, that I finally realised that my love would always be unrequited…Yes, I was the only one in the Beach End cheering him on – as others laughed!!!! So cruel. So, so cruel.
Not to worry – I still had Scotland! Oh, was I in love then? What do you mean you don’t remember when Scotland were REALLY GOOD? No? Oh well. Never mind. It didn’t last very long.
But eventually having replaced Georgie and Joe Jordan (honestly, he was gorgeous with his teeth in!) with some real life drunken womanisers - and having watched Scotland shrink to not even qualifying for the European cup, I finally shook the habit and learned NOT to pin my hopes and dreams on a football match. Besides, I had my own share of love affairs to keep me in enough joy and pain to last a lifetime.
So why, why, why have I let myself get so wrapped in this year’s World Cup that I found myself literally slumped over the ironing board on Tuesday night as Holland scored its third goal against Uruguay? Why had I allowed myself to believe for one nano second that Uruguay could beat them? I’d only picked Uruguay out of the office sweepstake for God’s sake! Why did they have to be so bloody good???
So yes, I have indeed had the most wonderful of holiday romances this summer. I have thrilled to the delights of Germany versus Argentina, I have been as gobsmacked as the rest of you when the USA “beat” England 1-1 (and just a wee bit sick after the disaster against Germany – I am Scottish after all) and I have sat indoors on those gloriously warm Saturdays and Sundays when I should have been dead-heading the roses in order to watch teams that I’d previously not even heard of let alone wanted to see.
I shall be broken hearted at 10.00pm tonight because even if the result does go in my favour (it has to be Holland – some of my best friends are Dutch) it will be a whole four years until my next heart-pounding, heart-breaking, soul-destroying passion will be flamed again.
In the meantime, I’ll have to make do with West Brom (hubby’s very, very long-standing love affair) floundering about at the bottom of the Premier League. Again.
Hey!
ReplyDeleteYou never know. 2010/11 could be West Brom's year!