30 April 2016
The CIPA Pee is at a football match, although this is not a formal engagement, you understand. I was very nearly not at the football match, because I got caught smuggling a can of Red Bull® into the stands in my handbag. The security guard, about to confiscate the can but seeing the look of panic on my face, took pity and found me a paper cup instead. The only problem now is, a paper cup full of Red Bull doesn’t fit very well in a handbag. Up in the stands, I await kick-off with barely-contained excitement (I am being sarcastic) and barely-contained Red Bull. I have decided to support the same team as the people sitting next to me, which is sensible I think because they don’t look like they would tolerate argument over, say, a penalty. My husband agrees. During the game, the blokes behind us provide an ongoing assessment of the other team’s abilities, set to music. It is a loud and robust commentary, and it contains some adverbs that my 12-year-old may not have heard before, or at least not in the context of performance appraisal. There is a lot of running around, and there are some fouls. Someone goes offside, which as far as I can tell is like going to Mornington Crescent via Beacon Hill. Then just before the interval, there is a goal. It is not the right kind of goal and the blokes behind me express their thoughts accordingly, only this time not to music. The rest of the match is a bit depressing. Our team appears to go home before the end, in spirit if not in body. There are some more of the wrong kinds of goal. The male voice choir behind us becomes subdued. My 12-year-old asks what’s for tea, which is usually a sign he has moved on from the current activity in the hope of there being something better to look forward to. I trust I will not be told off for bringing the profession into disrepute by attending a football match. In my defence, I didn’t join in the shouting – even when our team clearly needed reminding that when you’re on the pitch wearing shorts and shin pads, football isn’t a spectator sport it’s an activity – and I didn’t eat any pies or pasties or other plebeian fare in the interval. In fact, apart from the Red Bull gaffe, I was impeccably behaved throughout. Ask my 12-year-old.
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