Love poem in the Metro

[Frogger]

Dear football,

Sometimes, I don’t know why we stay together.

We almost always meet outside in the freezing cold. You cost me a bloody fortune. And you break my heart. Regularly.

To be honest, you used to be so much easier to love. Things were more straightforward. And cheaper. We didn’t lust for the finer things and you didn’t try to overspend your way to a ‘better’ us.

Sure, we had serious issues that should be forever left in the past, but we used to feel much closer. Like one and the same. I get the impression, sometimes, that you think you are better than me.

Okay, so you get all the attention but, without ‘us’, you are nothing.



At my lowest ebb, I fantasise about breaking it off and having casual relationships with others.

You know, hook up with them once a week for a couple of hours, then forget about it the moment it’s over. Do other things. Go for long walks. Master the guitar. Read more. Learn to cook the perfect risotto.

But I can’t. You are an obsession. A passion. A way of life for me. For better or for worse.

I don’t think you quite understand why I love you. You think it’s all about being better than everyone else when, truth be told, all I care about is the comfort of knowing that you are still going to be around next season to do it all over again.

In recent years, I’ve seen too many lose their one true love. I’ve watched their worlds crumble, and it’s excruciating.

You don’t need to perfect. You don’t need to shower me with silverware. We don’t have to always be ‘winning’. You just have to make the effort and treat me with the respect I deserve.

Remember, I don’t get paid to be in this relationship. You do!

It’s never going to be exciting all of the time. Remember all those summers we’ve spent angry and ignoring each other? I still came back. I always come back. You cannot accuse me of not trying.

For goodness sake, I sing to you every week. I serenade you. On the odd occasion, I even hurl abuse at those who chose to love another.

I shouldn’t, really. It doesn’t matter whether someone’s roses are red, or their violets are blue. They can be white, orange, yellow or green for all I care. The only colour that matters is ours. They can have theirs.

And anyway, we all love the same. It’s just that some of us get to go away on European holidays. I don’t mind that I have to share you with other people. In fact, that’s the best part. The trips away and the journey back, whether we are speaking to each other or not.

Friendships are formed thanks to you. Lifelong, unbreakable connections, the shared experiences, the unforgettable and the lamentable. And when the families get together, that’s special. Side by side, young and old. I used to be one, now I’m the other. My grandfather doesn’t come around any more but I can still close my eyes and cherish those moments. That’s because of you, my love.

I suppose it’s easier to remember the good times. Hearts racing as we experience orgasmic moments of euphoria. Okay, more often than not it goes limp, but we rise and fall together, as one.

We must, or this love is not worth the paper it is printed on. There’s so much I don’t like about you these days but it only hurts because I will always love you.

I suppose I’ll just have to accept that I’m never getting away from you. For better or worse. Til death do us part. I just hope that I die before you do.

Love from a fan X

[Wally Banter]

Sounds very much like a love poem....to a sex worker.

[Frogger]

Sounds very much like a love poem....to a sex worker.

They need loving too.

[Howling Mad Murdock]

Change "football" to Orient.

[Rich Tea Wellin]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
We'll extend your contract
If you're over 32

[Constanza]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Are we better now
With Laurence Vigauroux


Ps I told the wife I booked us a table tonight for 7.30. Can't see it going well as she's better at snooker than me.