Regarding my recent posts (HERE and HERE) about the proliferation of flags of the Cross of St George on the cars of little England.
OK, I admit it, I just don't like football. I know, I'm not a real man, I'm a snob, a scum-sucking traitor to my glorious nation, but that's just the way it is.
I find it boring and overrated, and I'm not so desperately insecure about my identity as to pretend to myself that I'm a part of something I'm not - the Engurland Army.
Nope, I'll get my kicks elsewhere, thank you.
Kicks - do you geddit?
It wasn't always thus. During Euro 96 I was down the pub with my mates at opening time to watch the games, my face quadsected with red and white warpaint (though perhaps a part of the appeal was the "pub at opening time" angle).
And I have actually been to a fair few matches with AWOL co-editor DJ Tim. Perhaps it was that these were Watford games that ensured the brevity of my love-affair with football... Harry The Hornet put the boot in! (Yeah, I know, they're on their way up again. Go on you 'orns. Etc etc.)