My hymen remains intact. If England had been in the World Cup Final, then even I might have tried to watch it. But no. I have still never seen more than a few seconds of any professional football match, and I have still never watched a single moment of one on purpose.
I was a pencil thin child, but my teacher in the final year of primary school berated me in front of the class on a daily basis for being "fat" because I could not play football.
He is probably dead, but not so the secondary school PE teacher (who also taught English, which he barely spoke) who gave me a report saying that I "possessed little physical ability" as if I had been a quadriplegic. I was regularly walking eight or 10 miles in an afternoon, and sometimes more.
By the time that I was in the Sixth Form, then the school did not have a library. It was, however, still kitting out at least seven football teams, ferrying them around, and all the rest of it.
And my Durham college used its preferential public funding to send the football team to Amsterdam for a week during term. A little over 15 years later, the Principal's lavish funeral was presumably paid for by the drug dealers and the brothel-keepers of Amsterdam. If not, why not? After all, he had been very good for business.