I am not, and have never been, a football fan. When I was a grammar school boy, the last thing Physical Education ever involved was Education. So I never understood the attraction. But I do like to watch the women’s game. The Lionesses, and Arsenal. Why? Because they don’t cheat. Well, hardly ever.
Imagine if in snooker, the all-time great Ronnie O’Sullivan’s black ball is just about to reach its winning pocket, when his opponent sticks his que out to block it. Or if World Darts Champion Luke Littler’s last dart is thrown off course by his opponent nudging his wrist at the moment of release. Never going to happen. Never going to be allowed.
In men’s football, it’s different. If your opposing team looks likely to score a goal you are apparently expected to inflict life-changing injuries on that player to prevent him doing so. It’s called a “professional foul”. What makes it “professional”? Are there such things as “amateur fouls”? Perhaps the “professional” ones are the debilitating kicks to the shin, “amateur” ones a sharp tug on the opponent’s shirt. I have no idea. I admit, I don’t understand it, even though I can quote the off-side rule with pretty much the same accuracy as the Lord’s Prayer. I do, however, have an opinion about the way men’s football is presented on TV nowadays.
I was thankfully raised through childhood by women. A mother and a big sister. I am a huge advocate of women’s rights. But… Can we please remove these blonde haired, blue eyed, long legged girlie commentators from the commentator’s chair during the men’s game? Let the boys have their space. Let them jest and jostle their macho opinions free of all regard of ladies being present. Let them shift and shuffle in their chairs, talking over each other’s voices with conflicting opinions about management failures and referee’s mistakes. Let them scratch at their balls, adjust themselves in their seats, and reminisce about games gone by, when they themselves were perhaps out there on the pitch, competing for those hallowed cups and trophies. Let the boys have their space.
(PS: The car in the photo? It’s my neighbours).
