I do not watch football.
Deliberately that is. I’ve probably occasionally been in a bar when a match was being shown on the big screen, but I have never, ever, paid money and gone to watch a game, nor have I deliberately turned on the television to watch a match.
Given I am English and the last World Cup the English team won was well before I was born, that could be construed as sour grapes of course, but it isn’t. I just don’t like the sport. Even when the Lionesses won the UEFA European Women’s Football Championship in July this year, while my feminist heart cheered I still didn’t tune in to a single match.
I can give you a hundred reasons I don’t like the game but it doesn’t actually matter really, because even though I don’t like the game, I can, should I suddenly change my mind and decide I like football, decide to go watch a match and do so.
I can go in person, pay my entry fee (if there is one), and watch a game. Heck, I could even join a team and play myself -presuming there was a team on the lookout for a midfielder with two left feet, a hatred of mud and a strong desire not to get kicked, bruised or break a nail in the name of sport.