Football virgin

Well, I was going to do an article on the Oscars but no ammount of Pro Plus or fake enthusiam could force me to stay awake long enough to pretend I still cared about who won and who didn't. So, alternatively I'm going to change tone dramatically and write about.. football!
Now I won't pretend to be a big footy fan. The offside rule makes as much sense to me as the mystery of why Kerry Katona's still famous and to me Ashely Cole is merely someone who cheats on Cheryl Tweedy, nothing more.
However, tempted by the promise of a free pitcher of beer I agreed to watch the Carling Cup final with a few other non footy fans as my friend Annabelle is a Tottenham Hotspurs supporter (yes, that's right, apparantly girls can like football without being lesbians - who knew?) and wanted us to join her in cheering on the... em... whites? Gunners? Well, cheer them on anyway.
I started off watching the game with my usual approach, staring at the time and working out how long was left.
However, as the match proceeded I actually found myself getting into it. The Tottenham penalty given for a hand ball offence, the Chelsea free kick that saw the pub I was in consumed with the kind of deafening silence usually reserved for Lenny Henry comedy shows, and then the extra time that where the Spurs scored their victory goal and the pub erupted into celebrations. I was jumping around excitedly, not really sure why but enjoying the fun of getting caught up in the moment.
For the first time ever I kind of saw the appeal of football. Until then I had it in my list of things that the world would be better without, also including Richard Maedly, BT phone operators, Hollyoaks and the Black Eyed Peas. Now I'm not saying I'm going to be joining a sunday side any time soon, or rioting with some chav in the street about who's a bigger wanker - a Man Utd fan or Hitler. But I think I can safely say that I am now partial to the odd final, so long as there's a nice pitcher of beer there to help me through.
Beats the fucking Oscars anyway.