I Burst Into Tears And

I Lost The Plot For A While Then. And I Lost The Subplot, The Script, The Soundtrack, The Intermission, My Popcorn, The Credits, And The Exit Sign.

It Is A Strange Paradox That While The Grief Of Football Fans(and It Is Real Grief) Is Private - We Each Have An Individual Relationship With Our Clubs, And I Think That We Are Secretly Convinced That None Of The Other Fans Understands Quite Why We Have Been Harder Hit Than Anyone Else - We Are Forced To Mourn In Public, Surrounded By People Whose Hurt Is Expressed In Forms Different From Our Own.

A Man Who Wants To Die Feels Angry And Full Of Life And Desperate And Bored And Exhausted, All At The Same Time; He Wants To Fight Everyone, And He Wants To Curl Up In A Ball And Hide In A Cupboard Somewhere. He Wants To Say Sorry To Everyone, And He Wants Everyone To Know Just How Badly They've All Let Him Down.

Complaining About Boring Football Is A Little Like Complaining About The Sad Ending Of King Lear: It Misses The Point Somehow.

When You're Unhappy, I Guess Everything In The World - Reading, Eating, Sleeping - Has Something Buried Somewhere Inside It That Just Makes You Unhappier.