Friday, 30 September 2011

Bucket of blood

I watched Carrie last night.

This isn't the start of some sort of 'horror show' metaphor. I actually watched Carrie.

When it finished, I turned straight to Channel 5 to see Jermain Defoe celebrating a goal with rather too much gusto. Surely, over an hour in, we should be looking apologetic after scoring, not relieved?

The commentary soon explained. And then I had to explain - to my bemused family.

It was when they laughed out loud when I said the words 'Shamrock Rovers' that I realised the depth and darkness of the hole we'd just dragged ourselves out of.

'You're playing a team called Shamrock Rovers?!'.

I had to admit, it did sound made up.

'And you were losing?!'

I had to admit, it sounded all too believable.

So, a freakish game, but a win, some more game time for a group that will soon be registering the official brand name 'Spurs Kids' (better than Fergie's fucking Fledglings) and some sharpening for JD and Aaron (who really fucking needs it). Plus glimpses from Dos Santos.

The main thing is, it's out the way and now the only thing to think about is Sunday. Sunday, bloody Sunday.

(Carrie was as weird and excellent as I remembered it, by the way. It was actually my daughters that wanted to watch it. It's okay, they're teenagers who can genuinely fall asleep in front of the Saw series. They found the phrase 'I can see your dirty pillows' especially hilarious).

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