I don’t like football. Football doesn’t like me. This is fine, and we tend to keep out of each other’s way. We’ve found that the easiest solution for our mutual dislike is mutual avoidance. Mostly this works, because luckily football doesn’t especially agree with my boyfriend either, so I don’t have to spend my saturdays with Match of the Day, or listen to witless conversations about footy (what’s more tedious than football? People talking about football). I don’t watch any sports channels, read the backs of any newspapers, or ask my brother how West Ham are doing.Unfortunately there is one instance where football flagrantly ignores our peace pact, and that’s when it comes to the pub. Because, let’s face it, if you don’t like football and you want a peaceful drink on a saturday afternoon, most of the time you’re pretty much fucked. Today was a good example; we wandered off out after a long morning and early afternoon spent mooching about indoors, looking forward to have a couple of drinks and a nice chat about stuff. After all, this is what I expect the pub to be about; drinks, and chats. That’s all I ask of it. We made our way to my current pub of choice in our neighbourhood, ironically avoiding another local because they charge an entrance fee if there happens to be a match on (and that is another fucking rant altogether). It’s a cosy place usually, with an interesting mix of regulars, and pretty decent (and cheap) thai food. I like it there. When we got in and ordered our drinks it was busy; the big screen up the back was showing rugby*, which I expected really, so we made our way to the far corner, which was out of the way of the main crowd. Cool, I thought. They can watch their footy/rugby/sportwhatever, and we can have a quiet drink and a chat. Unfortunately I hadn’t noticed the tiny screen just above our heads playing the apparently less popular football game. Soon we were joined by a quite alarmingly arseholed old geezer, who sat around about a foot away from us and proceeded to spend the next 30 minutes randomlt shouting things such as “SPREAD! SPREAD THE BAAAALL! SPREAD IT!” and “GET ON DEFENNSHH, YOU FACKIN’ IDJITS!” and “YOU ARE RUDE! YOU ARE A VERY RUDE MAN!”. He also stood up at one point with his arms in the air, silently saluting nothing for a few minutes, and then stumbled back down again. Riiight. As the game went on, we were gradually surrounded by an army of similarly shouty winos. Any chance of hearing each other talk, and me not wanting to punch people, went right out the window. I fucking hate you football. Leave me alone. *By the way, I lump rugby in with football; it’s all about blokes chucking a ball around, what’s the difference?