Football Crazy

There’s nothing I like better than discussing various sporting events with Sainsbury’s delivery drivers.

Because each and every time, rather than saying “I don’t really follow football…” or whatever the sport may be, I instead find myself committed to the conversation in a way which I cannot get out of. I place myself in a position where I have to give vague answers which don’t really mean anything either way in order to get through what amounts to a man in a fluorescent jacket watching a man who hasn’t yet had a shave empty various baskets of produce into his washing basket.

This morning, as I unloaded a variety of things, I was asked what my plans were for the day. They were as follows: make some bread, do some ironing, look at jobs. That was my plan for the day because, as I’m sure you know by now, I am nothing but the most rock and roll person you will ever come across.

I didn’t say that though. I just said that I hadn’t really got any plans, and was just going to chill. Because I’m 40, and saying “chill” seems appropriate at my age.

This, somehow, opened up the floodgates for sports talk. Apparently it was the Sheffield Derby today. So that was going to be good. I don’t know if it was. Good, that is. I knew it was the Sheffield Derby but only by virtue of the fact that I’d heard someone mention something about it on the radio yesterday. By accident.

Luckily, over the years of deliveries I’ve evolved as a person. When I sense that the conversation is going somewhere I don’t want it to go – which is more or less every conversation with the delivery guys – I speed up. I’m basically The Flash when it comes to emptying those baskets. I start of sedately, but mention football and I’m flinging tins of soup and bags of flour with such speed that they’re a blur. The eggs go past so fast that when we cook them the yolk is all pushed up against one side of the shell,

There should be a box for special instructions when you check out your shopping.