Idle Workman

A common problem: the job. Here in North America we’re five hours behind the football action even if we’re light-years ahead on movie releases and obscene cultural trends. Ergo a Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday sometimes-Thursday-if-the-UEFA-Cup-tie-is-remotely-interesting fixture kick-off is three pm Eastern Standard time. For many among us three pm is that point in our workday where thoughts of suicide ping around our heads like wayward backpasses. Some have the luxury of closing an office door, paying about ten bucks and watching the whole match streamed for two hours on the desktop. These people are called bastards. Suckers like me work out in the open among the heathen so I have to carefully avoid earnest inquiries from fellow employees. But I should count myself lucky; those of us who work where there are no computers or televisions have the tricky task of avoiding the score blabbed out from ecstatic friends on the way home to watch the evening repeats.

So what can one do? People used to find my footballing interest quaint and cute until they noticed me drop off from doing pretty much anything for a few hours in the middle of the week except press refresh on a browser. Sometimes unwelcome interest can come in other forms. The more-than-inquisitive glances I received with my wild, silent fist pumping when Villa went up four-one up on Spurs comes to mind, as well as the audible gasps at the sight of my head banging up and down on my desk when Tottenham came back to make it 4-4. I could quit my job and move to England as a homeless vagabond roaming from ground to ground, pub to pub, sometimes hitching a ride to Spain for the more entertaining La Liga fixtures. But I would miss my girlfriend, the ordered-in Thai food, showers. Plus I couldn’t stand to be in a football culture, with page after page of newsprint dedicated to the sport, active pub-chat about the Shearer’s balls, and constant ribbing for my Villa supporting. I prefer the isolation of the lone football convert in a sea of hockey-heads. At least no one tries to console you when you get Manchester United in the FA cup draw for the second f*cking year in a row.

So for now I’m stuck walking the thin line between gross incompetence and passive neglect. Any advice in this regard, from anyone at all, anywhere, (does anyone read this guff?) would be appreciated. I’m too young to be fired. Plus I wouldn’t be able to afford my Setanta subscription.