Saturday 25.09.10

The weekends tend to blend into the rest of the week when you're ass is unemployed. You don't get the rush of euphoria that 5 o'clock on Friday brings, so when all your mates are well up for going out on Sheffield's piss-glossed tiles, there doesn't seem to be anything to celebrate. But that's a ridiculous state of mind to get yourself into. One of the biggest problems I have with unemployment is the tendency to immediately start moping. I retreat into the protective cocoon of my room, where I mooch the day away, never seeing the sun. The minute you get out and actually do something, anything, the world's a brighter place straight away.

But today I had a purpose to my thoughts, and that purpose was fantasy football. I've been doing it since I was about 8, one way or another, and it's a bit of an addiction. If you've got no real passion for football or its players, and just watch it for the love of sport, fantasy football is a good way of making it a bit more interesting. Until I have children, I can't see anything getting as much consideration and attention. Days can be ruined by the whims of a manager's interminable squad rotation system, your carefully researched transfers rendered useless because Danny Wilson's decided that Wim Jonk needs a rest. Affections for obscure, points-bringing players are developed that last for years. Rubber-legged wonder Paulo Wanchope earned a special place in my heart during one prolific season in the late '90s, bagging me the much-coveted WWB Minerals Fantasy Football league winner's trophy. It's only a thing my dad organised at his work, but I won cash, real cash! My team carefully pruned and adjusted, I sat and watched Jeff Stelling shout the key incidents of the day's games. The occasional off-camera shout of 'GOAL!!' from one of Jeff's idiotic cohorts made my heart flutter. Could it mean precious points? Will I be propelled from mid table obscurity to the dizzy heights of the top 5? As it turned out, no, but there's always next week.

That night, before heading out to the Washington for a few swifties, Anna, Amy, Davy, Martin and I sat and watched Alex Reid: Fight of My Life. It was on Bravo, a channel I only usually watch for 5 minutes when I spot tits and I'm flicking between channels. Like a siren on the rocks, the tits lure me in. But I never usually linger. This time Alex 'The Reidernator' Reid was the tit in question, and I tuned in in the hope of seeing him get his face punched off. Alex Reid is a strange case. Set against Jordan, he seems really pleasant and reasonable, but on his own he comes out with so many reeeeaaally reeeeeeaaally stupid statements I find it hard not to dislike him, the big muscular fool. The programme was about his first time back in the cage, taking part in his first MMA fight in a while. There was a hell of a lot of build up, more than was really necessary. The Reidernator entered the ring to a chorus of boos, under the watchful, expressionless gaze of his good lady wife. The crowd clearly didn't think much of him, and were looking forward to seeing him lose on the telly. Bravo counts as telly. But, much to everyone's surprise, Reid started on top and nearly had his opponent Tom Watson (not the golfer, another Tom Watson) in a choke hold within a minute of the start. 

I don't really like all this cage fighting business. It hasn't got the skill or discipline of boxing, and seems mainly to consist of grappling, either up against the edge of the cage or on the floor. It's all very homoerotic. Also, you're allowed to use your elbows and knees, which just seems a bit harsh really. I don't mind seeing a boxer getting knocked clean out, but when a cagefighter elbows his opponent in the face it makes me grimace. And that's what happened to The Reidernator. A lot. By the end of it his face was a puffy mess. His left eye wouldn't open because of the swelling, and both fighters had blood all over the place. It was horrible. Reid lost on points, which I reckon was fair enough. But, hello, what's this? After it finished, the boos were gone, and as Watson held his opponent's hand in the air the crowd gave a massive cheer. Over the course of 20 gruelling minutes he'd won them round, and I ended up finding the whole thing quite uplifting. 

So hear this, celebrities: If you want to rehabilitate your public image, all you've got to do is get beaten to a pulp in front of a paying audience and hey presto! They'll love you again. My only hope now is that, after his hilariously childish on-air rant about his pay, Chris Moyles is disliked enough to consider it. There'd be a pretty healthy queue of opponents.