It's World Cup time again, and that means wall-to-wall football, where can I hide?

It's 2pm in the afternoon. I am at my desk happily tapping out news, chatting to the health correspondent about developments in arthritis.

I'm loving my job, enjoying the company of the team, and the fun and frolics of working on a national newspaper.

But there is a dark cloud about to fall over the building, one which at this moment I am as yet blissfully unaware of.

There is a sudden thunder of applause, a crashing of fists on desks, cries of “whoaaaa!! ga’an my saaan!!!"

I am jolted from my serene world of thunder storms and heat spikes. I look up from my keyboard to see the entire (well, mainly the male portion) of the newsroom staring at the television screens that hang from the office ceilings.

A flurry of congratulatory conversation ensues: “good save”, “what a legend”, “did you see that? geeetttt innnn!”.

Groan – I look up at the screens. It’s that vaguely familiar bunch of brain-dead Wag lunch tickets kicking a ball around  to the applause of thousands. The dark cloud as arrived.

“Is there a football thing going on?” I lean over to a colleague.

“Nathan!!!” she says in a hushed tone, looking around to make sure no one heard my gaffe. 


Her concern is sweet but unwarranted – I have no shame in admitting when it comes to football, I wouldn’t know (or care) the difference between a  Premiership Cup and a double-D cup.

“It’s the World Cup,” she whispers.

“Oh, that sounds important,” I say. “Is that a big one?” - another raucous applause erupts around the newsroom.

A bloke in a soggy white shirt is running around in circles waving his hands, lapping up the praise like he has just discovered the solution to global warming, and judging by the reaction of the crowd, he might have done.

“I like the blue costumes,” I say to another colleague, “is that Portugal?”

I don’t worry too much about my male colleages thinking I am a traitor to the male species, the miraculous feat achieved by the guy in the soggy white shirt has their undivided attention.

Apparently it is an important one – England v France.

I go back to my work, and try to block out the noise of the beautiful (yawn) game hammering  around me.

What is it with this ridiculous waste of time activity that has men, and many women, bewitched for hours?

All I see is the moronic masses with red crosses painted on their faces being all hard and macho while draping their arms around and kissing their best mates.

Or drunken hooligans outside stadiums who reliably turn up to each and every one of these things before hurling cans around and getting arrested.

What gene am I missing that does not allow me to see the fascination, but instead makes me want to run as fast as I can in the other direction and hide in a (nicely-decorated) cave until it is over?

Maybe it has something to do with being forced to play it at school and hating every painful minute of it.

Whatever it is, it seems I am in the minority.

But as God is my witness, and you can hold me to this, you will never here the words “back of the net!” ever pass my lips.