Another Day, Another Derby, Another Chance to Not Give a Shit

Fulham vs Chelsea. Right. Like I don't have enough problems.

My kid wanted a new fidget spinner. Fucking things are everywhere.

Then the missus started with the list. Sainsbury's. Dry cleaning. My soul.

All before 9 AM.

And now this. Football. Trending. Because the world needs more reasons to shout at a screen.

I just want coffee. A big fucking bucket of it. Black. Maybe a splash of something brown.

I saw the score pop up. Or something about it. Didn't read it.

Don't care.

My team is whatever team pays my bills.

And right now, that's just me. And my shitty laptop.

Trying to string words together. Before my head explodes.

Or the little one finds my emergency chocolate stash.

This is why we drink, isn't it?

To forget the scores. To forget the lists. To forget the tiny hands grabbing at your face.

Sunday morning. The sacred time.

For hangovers. For regret. For the faint scent of stale beer in the living room.

Not for fucking football results.

Unless it's a reason to go to the pub. Which it isn't. Not really.

Just another game. Another two teams kicking a ball.

While I'm here.

Kicking myself. For that last Jameson. Or two.

Who won?

Doesn't matter.

We all lose eventually. Especially on a Monday morning.

I need a nap.

Or a drink.

Probably both.