A well-known media personnel from North Norfolk had agreed to correspond on Premier League games for Ronnie Dog Media. In fear that it may tarnish his ‘prestigious’ name in the world of British media, he wishes to remain unnamed. Here are his ramblings.
After a week off from writing this godforsaken column, I am back. I am. But am I happy? I am not. Last week I was on the receiving end of an emotional beating so hard that even a teenage goth may have cried, shed a tear, or generally felt emotion.
A loss to Crystal Palace? No, that won’t do at all. My Canaries had been incinerated by the Palace Eagles. I took the week to consider my options. Should I give up on becoming a football fan altogether? Perhaps Liverpool’s laudatory loyalists were in search of a new companion to join their ranks in the Kop? Or maybe, just maybe, I give my beloved Norwich one more week?
Aston Villa. Of all the teams. Aston Villa. A Villa? What are you, a small luxurious country home? What kind of a name is that for a football team? And just look at their captain. That smug Jack Grealish can kiss my arse. And I don’t say that because I’m attracted to him. He is a very beautiful man, but NOT like that. I just think his hair is very flattering. I wish I had hair like that. Mmmmmm.
But we lost. Not by a little. Aston Villa dismantled us like a psychopathic toddler would dismantle his neighbour’s play doll (actually an action figure (damn you Gareth)). I was so distraught with the loss that I slapped a nearby throw cushion. To my dismay, the remote control was balancing on the cushion at the time, and the velocity of my smash sent the control soaring into the air. While airborne, I gasped, looking up as the object came spiralling back down in my direction. Just a few moments ago it was a tool of total control. Now, it was a weapon, wielded BY me, directed AT me.
I was hit. A bruise began to form on my forehead as I wailed in agony. And while the discomfort subsided quite quickly, the initial contact brought upon a pain so acute that I could only describe it as torturous.
As a two week period of emotional torment came to a close, it was only fitting that I would be physically mutilated as well. I opened my browser to look at the Premier League scores and wallow in my pain. But a strange thing happened. As I, Alan, browsed through the results, I felt much better. For at least I wasn’t a Manchester United fan. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. Maybe I’ll give Norwich another chance.