By Tony Caw @cawanth
Friday night 5pm: work done and it’s off to the pub. Few pints later and before you know it you’re in some (quite frankly) crap club taking a shot at everything that moves – alcohol and female alike.
Saturday morning: feeling a little tender, yet you still manage to get “right back on it.” Sit in a house with your pals watching the scores come in with Jeff as yet another coupon heads the same way as your bank balance – down and out.
Saturday night: head back to same crap club you were in the night before after vowing just that morning never to go back again. You know the fear is going to creep up on you but party hard nonetheless. You may bear witness to violence, vomiting and vandalism depending on where you go but it’s just a Saturday night. Stagger home with a kebab/Chinese/chippy (delete as applicable) and collapse into your bed as the chaos of the last forty eight hours finally takes its toll and renders you unconscious.
Sunday is a special day. You should never really do anything on a Sunday unless absolutely necessary in my opinion. We all know about the religious connotations of a Sunday and now there’s a new religion in the 21st. Century – The Church of Super Sunday.
I drag myself out of my bed rough, tired, parched and not wanting to talk to anyone. The nonsensical, stimulant induced chat of the last couple of nights is as desirable as a Mexican immigrant to Donald Trump. But therein lies the beauty of my Sundays….I don’t have to talk to anyone.
I throw on some old clothes (looking good is NOT a necessity on a Sunday) and plod next door to my best friend’s house. I walk into the conservatory where the big screen TV awaits. I say “awright” to my pal of twenty five years, lie on my couch for the day, and say nothing or very little besides to him for the duration. But there’s no awkwardness of course. (See Uma Thurman’s treatise on silences in Pulp Fiction.) Everything that has had to be said has been said over the last two days.
Sunday 12.30pm: it’s off to Scotland for the first offering. Not the highest standard of football but it’s a good starter for ten and some of the games can be very entertaining.
Sunday 2pm: it’s off down South for the first Premier League game. Dozing on the couch, I drift in and out of the game (especially if Owen is commentating) and feel a little more at peace and relaxed.
Sunday 4pm: It’s the second BPL offering. Sunday dinner is served in my best friend’s house yet I need not move as it is brought to me on my couch throne. The night of Scottish winter draws in as the afternoon drags on and as the latest, utterly enthralling chapter of the English Premier League draws to a close.
Sunday evening: It’s off to the Continent where the best is normally saved to last. Messi or Ronaldo it normally is as the Spanish giants bring the evening to a close. Game done, and it’s time to think about work again. Say “see ye later” to my best friend and home I go. Football is the most beautiful game and it’s on Sundays that I realise this the most. I repeat that you shouldn’t really do anything on a Sunday. It’s the Lord’s Day. And Sunday football allows me to do this. To praise the Lord. In spite of these days of secularism, I still want to keep on the good side of the Big Man upstairs and if he tells me to rest, then on a Sunday that’s precisely what I aim to do. And I thank football for that. That’s what Sunday football means to me. It allows me the chance to do nothing and please the Big Man while watching the greatest sport on Earth. Heaven.