I lived in Warwickshire during the late noughties in a place called Leamington Spa. You may have been there and it is a nice place. Sitting on the town’s green by the River Leamington with an ice cream or cold beer is not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
Talk to certain rugby followers, and they regard football as a sub-normal game, played by GQ posing models full of hair gel and attitude, diving like graceful swans at the slight brushing of a leg or arm.
Down in Devon, it has been as cold as East Anglia without the snow and a recent Tuesday night saw me without any electric in my flat. Much against every mental and physical sinew in my body, I am forced to go to the local supermarket to seek the much needed ‘leccy.’ I have just come back from the local gym after some early stage charity run training.
It seems an age since I wrote a frustrated piece for this site on a dull and dank Monday evening in Devon. 2012 has been and gone. Loan players have been and gone but you like to think that the 1st January 2013 is a clean slate.
I was sitting in a bar during another wet Saturday lunchtime, reading the papers. Going past the endless Olympics stories, I got to the double page spread about the recently completed John Terry trial. One page was full of who said **** to who.