If I was still living in the UK, I’d be squashed up in the back of a cab right now with The Best Man, The Beancounter and Sickly Child on the way to Luton to catch a flight to Moscow. A flight containing two hundred already drunk slightly overweight men gently sweating nicotine and harassing flight attendants. On arrival, I’d be questioned at length about my right to be in the country before being herded onto a poky Russian bus. I’d then be forced into a segregated compound for hours on end, denied the right to drink even a watery beer, and have to spend an age queuing for the right to relieve myself in a excrement smeared portaloo. After around three hours of bowel-clenchingly unbearable tension, I’d be manhandled back onto a bus, back to the airport, and onto a plane with two hundred practically feral men. Part way through the four hour flight, I’d celebrate my 36th hour without sleep by removing the beer belly of a slobbering electrician from Billericay from my arm rest. Once back at Luton, I’d have to endure a three hour journey across London in rush hour traffic just for the right to fall back into my bed.
Oh, and I’d have paid £750 for the whole privilege.
Strangely, I’d pay twice that much to be in the back of that cab now.
Football – it’s a funny old game.