Day 70: It's coming

Skeechy-neechums!

That's my new introduction, as I'm sure you'll recall. I do that at the beginning of every post now. It's my thing.

So, hey. How you doing? Oh yeah? For real? That's good to hear.

Me? I'm sweaty. I'm just a big ol' bag of sweat. And I've got heat exhaustion. Or just normal exhaustion. Whichever. Work wasn't so fun. Work was sweaty and bad.

But it's OK. It's all OK. Because... well, I'm not sure if you've heard. I'm not sure if anyone's told you, but--

--it's coming home!

It's coming.

Football's coming home.

And after we've all been so concerned, as well. We haven't been able to sleep, we haven't been able to eat, we've been sick with worry. We've put out bulletins. We've released adverts on the back of milk cartons. We arranged a press conference with old father football and mother football, the mother stoic and strong, though the bags under her eyes told a different story. The father, voice cracking with emotion, through rasping sobs, imploring, beseeching his son, football, to please, oh please, just come on home.

Well football has listened. Football has heard.

And it's coming home.

Football's coming home.

We're jubilant. We gather on the streets. We fill our squares. There are flags. There are streamers. Have you heard? You've heard. We've all heard. But can it be true? It can. It's happening.

Football's coming home.

But wait. What's this?

Plot twist. Football was home all along. Football never left. The calls were coming from inside the house!!!

We scream, run for the door. But football has us. A gloved hand presses over our mouth. Rippling muscles tighten their grip. We struggle, but football is so strong. We are powerless. Football's breath is hot on our neck. Its frame towers above us.

We kick out, catch football's toe. Football roars, momentarily loosens its hold, and we fight with all we have, and suddenly we are free.

We fly through the house. We fly down the stairs. Football is behind us. Football is right on us. Our breath is coming in ragged spurts. Our heart is bursting from our chest. We pump. We run. We fling items from shelves behind us as we go, trying to slow football's inexorable pursuit. Down goes the chest-of-drawers. Down goes the pan stand. Down goes the collection of River Cottage cookery books a well-meaning relation has been buying for us every Christmas.

A crash, a howl. Something has connected. Football is down.

No time to look. We skid on the linoleum of the kitchen. We're at the door. We fumble for the key. Please. Please God. Oh please God.

The key won't go in the lock. We hear a noise. The key is at the lock. There is the noise. We drop the key. We grasp madly for the key. Our hands aren't working. Our hands slip.

There is no noise. All is silent.

We are wailing. We are sobbing.

Our fingers close round the key.

The key goes in the lock. We wrench open the door.

... And there is football.

Football stands before us.

We step backwards. We slip on a copy of River Cottage Gluten Free, its spine unbent, and we go down. There is a rush of wind, the acrid stench of sulphur. We are screaming, but we hear nothing.

Football advances. Its tongue lolls from its suckling mouth. Its eyes roll back in its narrow head. From some shrouded orifice extends a fleshly proboscis, pale and many-jointed and dripping with some form of glutinous jelly.

The proboscis clamps over our nose and mouth. We feel warmth. We feel a gorged, dizzy sensation. We cannot see. We cannot hear. All is football. All is blackness.

- - -

When we come to we are wearing a white shirt with a red cross on the breast. Our head is shaved. We have patriotic, faded tattoos on our leathery forearms. We hold a can of proper English lager, like the Canadian Carling or the Australian Fosters or the Danish Carlsberg or the Spanish San Miguel or the American Coors Light or the Dutch Amstel or the Belgian Stella Artois, in our bear-like hand.

We climb to our feet. We scratch our behind. What were we doing on the kitchen floor? Must have passed out after that legendary sesh last night. Fletchy was acting a right bell-end. Good kebab though. Top bants. Great night.

We plod through to the living room, switch our 52-inch television to Sky Sports Main Event, and, utterly at peace, we watch the game.

Football never leaves. Football is always home. We love football. We are football. We always were.

How could it be any different?