Birmingham 0 Chelsea 0, and 10 minutes to go. I’m trying to distract myself. I run the bath, and then remember I’ve just had one. Pull at my flaking skin. Turn the radio off for good luck. Have a quick jog round the lounge. Stick my fingers in a jar of peanut butter. Eight minutes left, and time is going very slowly. So I pop to the shops, come back with a bag of flour we don’t need. Injury time, and Chelsea are peppering the Birmingham goal. I’m kicking ball after ball off the line, silently screaming.
I’ve not been like this for a good 30 years, since I played out every Manchester City away match in my bedroom with a pair of rolled-up socks, and came downstairs at 4.45pm in the kind of sweat that made my parents worry I was headed for damnation.
Birmingham holds on. Bless you Brucey, I knew you had it in you. I phone my friend Les, a Manchester United fan.
”Did you listen?”
”Yep.”
”Result, eh?”
”Yup.”
”We can still do it you know.”
”I know. We’re only seven points behind — if we win.” He stops; a delayed reaction. ”What d’you mean we can do it?” A burst of indignant laughter.
”You can still do it,” I say, quickly correcting myself.
”You’re on the turn,” he says.
Saturday 3pm: I’m listening to the radio by myself, embarrassed and confused. 3.26pm: Kevin Davies scores for Bolton. ”Shit!” I shout, as if I’ve been stabbed.
Maya, my daughter, runs in. She’s worried. ”What’s wrong?”
”Kevin Davies has scored for Bolton.”
”Are they playing City?”
”No, United.”
”Why’s that shit? That’s good isn’t it?”
”No, it’s complicated. I’ll explain one day.” What I mean is that I’ll explain when I can get my head round it. Seven minutes later, relief. Louis Saha equalises. ”Yes,” I say under my breath.
Ten minutes before the end, and I’m running round the kitchen in fist-pumping ecstasies. Ruud van Nistelrooy scores what turns out to be the winner. ”Yes, yes, yes, oooh yes.”
”What’s up?” asks Diane, my lady friend, who neither understands nor cares for football.
I fess up. ”United have scored. I’m desperate for them to win the Premiership.” I tell her I’m losing it and I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my City friend Bricey G. I fess up some more — at Chelsea the other week City fans sang, ”If you hate Man United clap your hands.” And I didn’t clap.
She looks at me with warmth and love. ”You’re not going mad, Simon,” she says. ”It’s just Chelsea, isn’t it? They’ve changed the political complexion of football.”
”Eh?”
”Well, they represent everything you hate — unfettered capitalism, cheating, boring football, contempt for fans …”
”How d’you know that?”
”Everybody knows that,” she says, ”and compared to them, even Malcolm Glazer and United seem relatively benign.”
”It’s worrying, isn’t it?” I say, pathetically.
”Not as worrying as the plight of thousands of destitute asylum seekers in the United Kingdom quaking at the thought of being deported to their deaths.”
I’m becoming obsessed. My whole raison d’etre is geared towards Chelsea losing the Premiership. Sunday afternoon, City play Middlesbrough. I fall asleep listening to the commentary. Wake up; hear we’ve lost again. Who cares? Find myself singing ”Oh Ruudi Ruudi, Ruudi Ruudi Ruudi van Nistelrooy.” Monday morning, the newspapers report that City are a disgrace and Psycho has told them so. Not bothered. More interestingly, Ladbrokes has reopened the book on United winning the title.
Perhaps Jose Mourinho is a double agent, working for United’s marketing department. Until recently United were far and away the world’s most hated team. And now? Come on you Reds!
My football fantasy goes like this: Liverpool beat Chelsea in the Cup, Chelsea panic in the league, lose to Bolton, lose to United, lose the last game of the season at Newcastle to a John Terry own-goal after Didier Drogba, Damien Duff and Arjen Robben are sent off for fighting each other.
Roman Abramovich sacks Mourinho, Chelsea fail to win a trophy under Guus Hiddink, Abramovich walks out to make Dynamo Moscow the richest club in the world, Chelsea are relegated, go bankrupt, I start hating United again. Oh, and City win their first trophy in 31 years.
Not much to ask, is it?