It might be fantasy, but the reality bites

As usual, the darkest hour is just before the dawn of a new season.

This morning is fraught with dangers, swaddled in the sheep’s clothing of invitations. The reminder text from the lad organising your usual one saying you can throw the tenner in later on. You see that email you never opened about a work one, and now you feel half-obliged.

Or you could suck yourself in, by accident. It strikes you Podolski could be taking the penalties now, and looks cheap. All of a sudden you’re registered and popping in the codes of half a dozen leagues.