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.

“Who the [email protected]$% are Chelsea? Who the [email protected]$% are Chelsea? Who the [email protected]$% are Chelsea?”

These were the words I chanted after Todd Cantwell (a new hero of mine) equalized against Chelsea in the sixth minute of the game. The adrenalin hit me so hard that it gave me a high so satisfying that I almost stood up in excitement! I had just made myself a boiling cuppa (cup o’ tea (cup of tea)) and had the wherewithal to abstain from showing my excitement in a physical manner. This is a skill that few can master. Instead, I just nodded my head at the television with a large grin.

Of course, by the end of the match, it didn’t matter. We had lost, and nobody could blame me for the anger fueled path of destruction that followed. They often say that football causes violence, but nobody knew how far it could push even I, a civilized man from North Norfolk. I got so worked up that I regrettably pushed over a nearby coat stand. Since then I have reflected greatly, and have vowed to only show small bursts of violence in the future, instead of letting it all out at once.

Norwich vs Chelsea wasn’t the only clash of titans in the third match week of England’s top-flight football. Liverpool also played host (although they were not very hospitable) to Arsenal. I watched the game from my sofa (this time tealess) and allowed myself to fist bump in celebration of Liverpool’s first goal. I don’t support Liverpool, but to see a defender score is such a rarity, I just couldn’t control myself. I nearly got up to really have a go at celebrating, but remembered my previous self-proclamation.

“NO MORE VIOLENCE!” I yelled quietly at the top of my lungs. Instead of going berserk, as I had done before, I allowed myself one short burst of mostly harmless violence. I looked around the room, pondering my next move. It was like a game of chess, except I was both black AND white. Like a game of checkers, but I was both black AND red.

“Oh, she’ll do,” I said smugly as I locked eyes with a Chinese takeout menu laying on a nearby counter. I walked calmly over to the leaflet (I had to conserve my anger) and picked it up. Then, I ripped it up into thousands of pieces, tossing them on the floor as I did.

At this point, the game had already finished, as I missed the rest deciding how to celebrate the first goal in a responsible manner. Maybe football is just too much for me. Or maybe, I’m just too much for football? I dread to think what carnage I might leave if allowed inside an actual footballing arena. Let’s pray to the great lord (or Allah if you prefer) we never find out.