Friday, 16 March 2012
Supporting Spurs is for lunatics
Essayist, bon viveur and garish jazz enabler George Melly wrote that one of the 'benefits' of growing old was that as your libido dissipated then disappeared it was 'like being unshackled from a lunatic'.
A similar effect can be achieved at a far younger age, of course, simply by getting married.
I wonder, though, how similar the effect would be if we could just turn off the part of our brain that cares about football? The bit that supports Spurs and still, despite what much smarter bits of the brain keep telling it, harbours hopes of glory. It would, I am certain, be wholly joyous.
The wild mood swings; the emotional dependency; the regular outlays of serious cash for no tangible or lasting return; the breakdown of relationships with friends and family who just don't understand that this week, unlike last week, when it was apparently a life affirming laugh riot, Harry Hill's TV Burp is deserving of nothing but grumpy, sweary disdain (clue: we lost): this is nothing short of a debilitating and damaging addiction.
It must stop.
Maybe I'll wander into one of those Alpha Course churches, with their posters that constantly ask you what's missing from you life. Or maybe there's an Allen Carr-style guru especially for our type of affliction who can prescribe some sort of programme. Is there a patch, maybe?
It's not the first time I've thought this. As long ago as the 1991 FA Cup semi final with Arsenal I remember being retrospectively horrified at the prospect of having lost. How much would it have hurt? Was it healthy for something so far beyond my control to matter so much?
Two years later, of course, we did lose, and I found out exactly how much it hurt. I hadn't kicked the habit in time. I still haven't. But I surely must.
(And yes, whenever you're reading this, whatever the next home game is, I'll see you at White Hart Lane; at what is more a support group than a group of supporters. Which is precisely why this blog is called Such Small Portions.)