Tonight, I had one of those fatherly responsibilities: taking a child to a big sporting fixture. My team, Chelsea, were playing Queen’s Park Rangers. The latter team are bottom of the League. My team had just thrashed a better side. My guest, W, had his eyes full of stars in anticipation.
What followed was a display of gross footballing ineptitude. W sat silently as bitter waves of profanity broke over his head and grown men, myself included, gnawed at our programmes and cursed. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shout:
“This is life, boy, this is LIFE. A man’s Life: Expectations crushed; cruel twists of fate; having those you’ve idolised let you down and leave you weeping acid tears of rage and humiliation. LEARN THIS TRUTH!”
Of course I could not do that to a 9 year old. His tiny shoulders are too fragile for such incalculable weight. So I just told him he was a bloody jinx and I was never taking him again.