Ball of confusion...

Yesterday afternoon was spent at Wembley, watching the husband get all twinkly eyed watching his favourite team play for the Charity Shield. I'm not the biggest football fan, and always tend to support the underdog.  In this case it was Leicester.  As we were sitting amongst 42, 201 Manchester fans, I promised the husband that I would sit very quietly, and not make too much of a fuss if Leicester scored a goal.

I had even bought a pink top, so that I would blend in with the Manchester fans.  They were rather lively to say the least.  What is it about football matches that makes men need to remove their t-shirts and swing them in the air, this movement causing their vast stomachs to swing in the opposite direction.  It wasn't pretty, and there was I, worrying that my shorts weren't long enough.  I reached the decision that donning a football shirt does not make you a sportsman.  Unless that sport is darts perhaps.

Not only were the men in some state of inappropriate undress, their language was rich, if limited.  Much abuse was thrown at anyone supporting Leicester, the referee, the linesmen and on occasions even some of the Manchester players.  Of course, all this was forgotten when they scored the first goal, and this gave the go ahead for more beer, male bonding and swearing at the opposing team.

The husband was having a fine old time, singing along with all the songs, shouting 'Referee!' and listening to the man behind him spout on about the game.  Actually the man behind just spoke all the way through both halves.  The husband and I decided that he was probably speaking to himself, because at no time did we hear a response from anyone else.

A couple of times when Leicester were playing well, I couldn't help but clap or throw my hands in the air.  The husband was getting rather worried that my secret support of the opposite side might be out, and that he might have to fight off several thousand Manchester fans, so he suggested that I actually sit on my hands.  When Leicester scored a little while later, I nudged the husband repeatedly in the ribs.  The husband shook his head in dismay, and turned to the guy next to him. 

Making a shooting mime at me, he said apologetically to him, 'My daft wife is supporting Leicester today.  Women, eh?'

The man looked past the husband and smiled at me.

'I'm supporting Leicester too.....'

That shut him up, and gave me carte blanche to clap when my team did well.  Unfortunately, they didn't win, but as the husband said, at least he didn't have to listen to me gloating all the way home.


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