It might be fantasy, but the reality bites
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.
But no, I’m determined. There will be no fantasy football for me this season.
For it is, of course, the most joyless, despicable business that will achieve nothing more than pick the scabs off your every character flaw.
The lack of attention to detail that will make Phil Bardsley a defensive lynchpin though his return date from injury is still down as unknown. Your impetuosity that replaces Rooney as captain just before United play two home games against relegation fodder in three days. Your arrogance that sees something in Chamakh nobody else does, including Wenger. Your laziness that ensures no substitution is made between September and May.
It gives you that extra bit of enjoyment watching games, some say. Nonsense, it just tacks on a layer of administration. Then regret. And eventually, as you slip down another table, shame.
Just a few more hours. Can I hold out?
