This is football.
This is fiction.
Or is it?
Eh aye it is.
Footballers, like many young people, take drugs. Not necessarily of the performance enhancing variety (although they very well might), no the drugs I’m referring to are what opinion piece writers would call ‘recreational’ (the rest of us just call them drugs).
Now we could argue about how big an issue this actually is, we could talk about the moral issue of drug use, we could go over the usual guff about footballers being role models, and you know what one day we might do just that. Today however is not that day, no dear reader, today I’m in the mood to tell a story.
There are many questions to which the human race still seeks an answer, questions of faith and science that continue to confound even our greatest thinkers. I’ll be honest I don’t give a fuck about those questions, what I’d like to know is this, what would it be like to play a game of football whilst off your tits on ecstacy?
Now I’m not talking about your Sunday league football where most of the participants are still fucked from the night before anyway, I’m talking about a proper professional game, with TV cameras, a crowd, corner flags, the whole shebang.
Ordinarily finding this kind of thing out would be an impossibility, but my regular readers (all 6 of them) will remember my fictional footballer from a previous blog, and well to cut a long story short he bloody well owes me one. So after (not much) persuasion my fictional footballer has agreed to play a game whilst under the influence of the drug made popular by early 90’s ‘ravers’. What follows is his personal account of that game. Enjoy.
Like most of my peers I’m partial to the odd pill, the odd snort of Columbian marching powder, whatever really, and also like most of my peers I couldn’t give a fuck about my performance on a football pitch. So when asked if I’d be up for playing a game having ‘gubbed’ a few ‘eccys’ I thought ‘aye why not’. Here’s how it went down.
Me and the lads are out on the pitch going through our stretches and all that shit, all eyes are fixed on our sadistic club physio who’s leading us on our uber camp warm up routine. Thankfully this means no-one notices me pull two ‘disco biscuits’ out my sock and down them with a swig of lucozade (for an extra wee buzz). There’s about half an hour to go till kick off and if I’ve timed this right I should be ‘coming up’ just as the game starts (usually I’d be timing it so my ‘up’ coincided with getting into the club, but the principle remains the same).
Normally during the pre-match team talk I’m pissing about on twitter or texting one of the other lads wives, today however I’m finding the whole thing oddly fascinating, the gaffer even comments on my improved attitude (he’s less enamoured when I give him a massive hug and tell him I’ve always ‘fuckin’ loved him’ him).
The two teams are in the tunnel, the club song is blaring over the speakers, I’d always considered it a fucking god awful dirge but today it’s different, today I’m really listening to it, really allowing myself to connect with the music you know?
The pre-match handshake isn’t going to cut it anymore, nah it’s time pre-match hugs from now on. My opponents are somewhat taken aback by my out of character display of affection. But there are times in life you just have to show people how much they really mean to you.
As the game kicks off I’m still dancing (eyes closed) to the Faithless track I asked the clubs DJ (PA announcer) to play (fuck me these pills are good).
The game is in full swing, I have no real interest in the ball but I’m quite happy to run about and just like, be with people and that, man.
I get a funny look from the physio as I come to the sideline for my 12th drink of water in the space of half an hour, I give him a hug and tell him it’ll be “alright man”, I know what I’m doing and his worrying ‘ll just bring me down.
First setback, I get a knock on the jaw and now it won’t stop moving, in fact it is actually swinging from side to side, I literally am not in control of my jaw, someone else is controlling my jaw. Maybe no-one will notice.
It’s half-time, the first half has fucking flown by, I have no absolutely no clue what the score is but I’m having a fucking amazing time. A. Fucking. Amazing. Time.
Oh oh, this is not good, we’re just about to start the second half and I’m coming down. What the fuck is up with these pills? I was only up for like an hour! This is not going to go well.
First of all this noise can fuck right off, everyone needs to be quiet right fucking now.
I think I’m going to shit myself.
Someone has just passed me the ball, this may be the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Why would anyone do that to me? At this point in my life why the fuck would someone pass me the ball?
I’m on the ground now, in the centre circle, as far away from those prying, judgemental eyes in the crowd as possible, there is sweat and tears dripping from every orifice. I really need a joint.
It’s not that I want to kill myself (that would be too much effort), I just want to stop existing for a while. Is that so much to ask?
The medical staff are on the pitch, “gas and air” I plead, “gas and air”. Oh sweet mercy, a mask is slipped over my face (then re-applied after my still swinging jaw knocks it back off) and I drift off into a glorious chemical induced sleep. I will not be doing this again.
Wow, thanks for that fictional footballer, I think it’s safe to say that you have answered the question ‘what would it be like to play a game of football whilst off your tits on ecsatcy’ once and for all, it clearly would be fucking awful.