I have previously confirmed my disdain for football. But I did not explain why.
When I was a little Spike, my grandfather was a director of Newcastle United Football Club. This meant that I had the privilege of sitting in the director’s box to watch home matches. To a football fan I suppose this would be paradise. To a four year-old boy, it was hell. It was usually cold, the seats were uncomfortable, I was not allowed to bring toys, go to the toilet or eat food. Instead I had to watch more men than I could count, run around a field chasing a ball for what seemed like an eternity; while crowds of people around me shouted words that I got me into fucking deep shit (examples) if I repeated them to my parents. By the age of six I had resolved that I would never watch another football match in my life, and I haven’t.
Naturally I wanted to ensure that my offspring were not subjected to the same misery and to that end, a Scalextric tracks was established in my home before my son was born; before he was conceived actually. Of course, by the time he was old enough to be deemed sufficiently mature to be trusted with a Scalextric controller (at least aged 12), the cars had long since expired and the whole contraption consigned to the rubbish. But the seed was planted, and was reinforced by making him accompany his wanna-be-race-driver father to competitions which involved him sitting around for hours while daddy alternated between visiting the toilet in fear or swearing at the inevitable technical problems. All solid grounding for a young chap.
So it was something of a disappointment when he decided he wanted to be a ninja and not a racing driver (the below was the result of a visit to Chatuchak market; how he then got the sword past UK customs I will never know).
Sadly, he eventually fell in with the wrong crowd and started to use swear words like “Arsenal”. I guess I failed as a father.
So, imagine my sadness when I received this from Camberley yesterday:
The photos were titled “Live from the Theatre of Dreams”, instead of the more accurate “I’d rather a holiday in Somalia than be here”. Camberley had fallen.
Such a shame too; here was someone that I admired; not only for the stories of his varied and extraordinary erotic escapades, almost none of which were true; but also for his cerebral capabilities. A doctorate in something only Stephen Hawking would fully understand. A man who spent months perfecting the creation of the Mandelbrot Set on a 486 PC, just for the sheer intellectual joy of it; or a year constructing what is generally considered as being the definitive mission for Operation Flashpoint. These are achievements to be proud of; unlike standing in a pool of pee shouting: Build a bonfire, build a bonfire, Put the scousers on the top. Put the city in the middle And burn the fuckin’ lot
(Although the sentiments are admirable, from a logistical standpoint surely one should put the city in the middle before trying to put the scousers on the top?).
I knew nothing good would come of this, and sure enough, his pathetic “theatre of crap” photos were followed by a series of emails indicating that his journey home had not been without incident. First of all, his shiny new car was rammed by a lorry (probably because Camberley had MU scarves fluttering out of the windows and the occupants were giving the finger to everyone they passed, you know what these hooligans are like). Then, freshly wound up from the ruckus on the terraces, he had picked a fight with the driver of the lorry. Bloodlust satisfied, he was then stopped for speeding and breathalysed. He concluded the story with the observation that all he needs now is a tattoo; I am not sure he is joking.
I used to think Camberley was the sort of guy who would end up with an OBE; now I think he is more likely to get an ASBO. He blames his son for luring him into this world of degeneration. If only Camberley had bought that Scalextric, Ninjas are far less dangerous.
Comments 🔗
2009-12-02| Camberley saysIndeed my degeneration is now exposed to the world. Almost everything you say is correct. Nearly.
Just to make one thing very clear though, my breathalyser result was: Zero, the bobby was so disappointed.
2009-12-03| Spike saysSorry for any inaccuracy. I assume the erotic escapades were substantially true then?
2009-12-03| Antz saysThere has to be the inevitable comment regarding Camberley’s taste in the football team he supports… yawn…. find some better taste man -> you could at least support a team worth supporting…..
2009-12-03| Camberley saysSpike: Yes Antz: I would struggle with any definition of ‘better’ that didn’t take account of nearly two decades of consistent success.
2009-12-04| TheSon saysYou may be happy to hear I now think football is stupid and I am presently sat not 10 inches away from my X360 Wheel that I use to play Forza3 with. Manual paddle shifting, Sim damage, yeah! bowl-cut mini-me would be proud.
Annoying how my hair still to this day tries to fall into that exact shape, it takes monumental amounts of Product to dissuade it.
2009-12-04| Spike saysProud father moment.
I find the brakes in Forza 3 to be “challenging”, and sometimes I just can’t win at “hard” opponents; but everything else at max difficulty. Pure car porn, the Lotus Exige is lovely.