Advertisement
Advertisement
One of the standbys of my pre-Prem attitude was to pick on the stupidity of soccer fans. Much of this was based around the theory that there was no logic to supporting Everton, and hating Liverpool. You are dividing your loyalties over indiscriminate territories. Worse, if I met a Manchester United fan from Leamington Spa I would question what possible affiliation they had to a city a hundred miles up the M6. We've discussed already how I was a bit of a twat.Now I see that compared to nationalism, soccer support makes a lot of sense. Rather than pledging allegiance to land mass because they happened to be born there, soccer fans operate a system of results based micro-patriotism. They consider a team's ethos, its personality, its tactical mechanisms. They place their loyalty and it is tangibly tested week on week. Their opinions are the product of years spent dedicating time and energy to the love of a craft. It is a more active passion than any religion and a louder devotion than any relationship. They are not idiots: they are pilgrims and intellects. Ones who keep faith even when ;Darron Gibson starts warming up on the touchline.
Advertisement
From what I can work out there are two main stock types of manager. Firstly there is the weathered, ex-playing Brit: all growls and jowls, lacking in flair but fairly decent blokes. Highlights of this school include Sean Dyche, a man with so much grit he apparently gargles it, or Sam Allardyce, who looks like the main character in a 1970s sitcom that is now too racist to be on TV. The other group are the European and Latin American tacticians and engineers: Pochettino, Pellegrini, Mourinho. They are all expensive suits and wisdoms muttered through broken English, perched on the touchline of a foreign land, muting their expressions of anger or joy with a steady continental reserve.Both groups carry on their shoulders the weight of a multi-million pound industry, and the highly-strung emotions of thousands of hungry hearts. They strike me as a strange mixture of power and vulnerability: alpha-males, constantly aware their position in the pack is under threat if they show any sign of weakness. Seated on thrones of ice, praying things don't heat up.There Is Sadness in Its Eyes
Another thing that put me off soccer was my understanding that it was synonymous with pub brawls and old John Smiths-drinking men randomly shouting "cunt" at their televisions. Obviously the thuggish side is present, and everything I hear about the Scottish league makes it sound like a straight-to-video Mad Max sequel, but my experience has indicated that there is actually a universal sadness at play. Pursuing the title is like trying to hold water—both futile but essential at the same time.
Advertisement
Referees have the air of a dad overseeing their teenage son's birthday party the first year the guests are taller than he is: on paper he is still in charge, but the basic physics of his situation mean he can only ever hope to look like a community support officer. In fact, and I'm not sure why, I was quite surprised when I found out they were paid. They buzz around with their little cards, vainly pretending they have the faintest hope of catching every exchange, across 100 metres of grass, between 22 men running faster than horses. When the bodies do hit the floor every face then turns to them, arms raised, yelping in protest; despite the fact that in every game I've watched so far the ref has never listened to a whining full back and said, "Oh, his arm wasn't up when he jumped? Sorry, I saw it wrong, carry on." Instead, they are forced to make speculative decisions that directly affect the lives of hundreds of different millionaires simultaneously on an international stage, and then pretend they aren't fazed. They are probably the most important person on the pitch, but I can't help but feel they are the least in control.
Advertisement
Before "The Awakening," the one time I couldn't help but avoid soccer was when the World Cup came around. It stopped being a private club and instead became a national obsession, with flags unfurling from windows, Tesco doing deals on Pringles and Ant and Dec releasing a single. Yet it did nothing to stoke my interest. Every four years I would watch as the cast of Dad's Army broke everybody's hearts and then tried not to make eye contact with photographers as they trundled back onto a huge coach with their iPod headphones in.Now I realize they probably didn't care, and they were just waiting to get back to their way more entertaining day jobs. The prestige of English soccer knows no fixed nationality. The Premier League features all of your favorite characters from the World Cup, only now there are crossovers from universes, with all the main ones teaming up to form super teams against each other. It's like an Avengers movie being released every weekend, only without Robert Downey Jr. making smarmy remarks every time something explodes.It Is Funnier Than Anything Else On TV
The Premier League offers incredibly fertile ground for humor. It is a peculiar universe wherein glossy corporate giants have attempted to claim something that cannot be owned. However many billions the league generates, its beating heart remains bored middle Englanders and athletes with absolutely no TV training. Each week this dynamic makes for magical flashes of incongruity, moments where the discipline and precision of the industry is challenged. Yaya Toure kicking a ball into a five-year-old girl's face; a bird shitting in Ashley Young's mouth; everything about Arsenal Fan TV. Human errors among the super-humans. It is a world where David Brent is the CEO of JP Morgan. It is an Apple Store staffed by school children.It Completely Changes Your Social Experience
The Premier League is the best thing to happen to my social life since MSN. In terms of discussion it provides a framework within which infinite variations can and will occur. Soccer will always happen but it will always happen differently. You can never run out of conversation. Getting my hair cut has improved exponentially; I no longer have to sever my barber's olive branch with a curt, "Sorry, I don't watch football." Instead we can discuss how Brendan Rodgers deserves more time, or how Alexis Sanchez is the only thing keeping Arsenal afloat, or how much I don't want him to give me Jamie Vardy's hair.Not only that, but the internet provides the platform for this conversation to continue through the week. I can stumble in absolutely off my tits and watch Best Goal Vines until I fall asleep. I check the BBC Sport app more than Facebook. I finally have something to tweet about beyond the Apprentice. It is my new best friend and I love it with all my heart.Hull Is In It
Hull is in the Premier League. Who knew?Follow Angus Harrison on Twitter