Thursday, 20th April.
Today I found out what it's like to support a team that just isn't that good.
Being a Carlton supporter, I always carry an air of calm superiority. And being on the
other side of the planet to where the English Premier League is played, I've never been
exposed to the ridicule of being a Tottenham supporter. Word leaked out this afternoon
(ie Natalie stood up and told everyone) that I'm a Spurs supporter. Well did I cop it.
And what could I say in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. For a split second I thought
about apologising to all the supporters of other teams who I have nailed to the wall in the past, and
then I thought "Sixteen Premierships, baby!"
(I was then invited on a night out with a bunch of Arsenal supporters, but that prospect was
more than I could bear.)
Jules and his girlfriend came home this evening totally pissed. Jules is hooked on
Aussie Rules, and he fancies himself as a bit of a player. (Still hasn't kicked a real footy,
but that doesn't stop him.) And when he's drunk he thinks his shit doesn't stink. So this
skinny 5-11 Englishman is bouncing around the living room with my footy, waving the ball around,
between his legs, behind his back, then handballing it. After each extravagant manoevre, he
would ask me "Would you ever do that? Is that pretty skillful?" I had to explain to him that
if he tried that he would probably be flattened while the ball was on its second pass behind his
back. "Really?" Oh yes, really.