football is not a metaphor for life

Moderately well known comedian, and some time column-writing satirist David Quanick, talking about football on radio 5, had something to say on the best goals in football, that has stayed with me for the last decade.

When Stan Collymore fluffed a shot, and turned away in disgust, he missed seeing the ball’s pathetic roll towards Tim Flowers. He was probably pissed at wasted opportunities, his bad luck, or perhaps was too preoccupied thinking about his personal life. Or maybe his turn was nothing more than a reflex reaction, moving back towards the half way line. What he missed was the ball, in a freak example of his, and liverpool’s, extreme good fortune, was the ball hitting a divot in the turf, one made by the Flowers to mark his area, spinning over the stranded keepers head and into the net. He had to be informed by his teammates that he had just scored the greatest goal in the history of the beautiful game.

That’s right: the greatest goal. I mean, 30-yard scorchers into the top corner are ten-a-penny in goal of the seasons competitions. Even that goal Carlos Alberto scored for Brazil in the 1970 world’s cub, has been played so many times it’s lost something of it’s beauty in repetition. So, reacting to such boredom, one can’t help but be drawn to the more unusual goals. First own goals, like Gordon Strachan’s when the ball was caught under his feet in the charity shield. But then even they get stale. Something that wasn’t a defensive error holds more attention. Something freakish. So, Quantick was right, in a way, Collymore, unwittingly, had scored the best goal I’ve ever seen.

Lately, I find myself less interested in the music I’ve always liked and know I like. I still listen to it more than anything else. It’s just. I only want to talk about bands that feel a bit more out of the ordinary for me. This finds me rediscovering pop music, and listening to far heavier and louder music than I’d ever considered worthwhile before. Teeny-rock, metal-for-emos, as a friend might call it. I don’t even like this music as much as neutral milk hotel, magnetic fields or the most serene republic: I just find there’s more left, for me, to say about it.