I watched the France versus Portugal Euro 2016 football final on television last night. I watched and watched and watched, all 120 minutes of the game (way past my bedtime) and I tried to enjoy it, I really did but it was so boring. I was going to keep count of the number of shots at goal but gave up when the number didn’t even reach five within the first 90 minutes. Carol, my wife, was getting fed up with me keep saying pat-a-cake pat-a-cake but, to be honest, that’s all it was. There were two exciting bits, just two within the two hours of my life I’ll never get back. The first was when Ronaldo (does he superglue his hair?) was taken out by some wily sneaky French player who struck under the radar. I waited for the red card or at least some fisticuffs or shouty arms-outstretched remonstrations from the Portuguese players to the referee, some excitement you know, but nothing, just a bloody moth fluttering around Ronaldo’s sorrowful face. The second was Portuguese forward Éder’s goal right at the end of extra time. It wasn’t bad, a low fast strike that scuttled along between the legs of the intervening players and finally, yipp-bloody-ee, finally made it to the back of the net. That was it. The rest of the game was uninspiring from-me-to-you-back-to-me stuff.
Maybe it’s me? Maybe once you’ve played rugby, you can’t see the point of football? I don’t know, and probably never will. Over the last few months, I have sampled so-called top-league games such as that game where Leicester City won some big title (I’ve forgotten which one and can’t be bothered to google it) and an earlier Euro 2016 game when England’s pampered posers were beaten by Iceland’s hunky heroes and I can’t find any enjoyment in the game. I can’t. I’m sorry.
In future, I’ll stick to watching rugby, tennis (well done Andy), and tiddlywinks. Or I might take up rolling cylinders of cheese down a big hill. That’s gotta be more fun than watching football.