For the second time in just over three years (
I can be so precise because I blogged about it) I got sucked in to playing
Kevin Tom's Football Manager, my favourite ever computer game which I used to waste my precious youth playing for much of the early 80s. It's simplistic in the extreme, but still just as addictive and I played it for hours, steering York City from Division 4 up to Division 1, winning the FA Cup twice, but cruelly missing out on the ultimate league trophy, when I inexplicably lost a game at the end of the final season I played. I ended up coming second to QPR, despite beating them in the final game of the season. Still, not a bad result for York. Hope they can emulate my successes. Though in one season we did lose 2-1 to Luton, an exact reversal of the real-life play-off score, which I assume will give Hatters fans some sense of vengeance (although York still ended the season higher than them and they were relegated the next season- take that Luton scum).
My wife had gone into London for some meetings at about 4 and I played the game solidly until 9.15 when I had to go and meet her at the station. It's still a great game. I had already been feeling tired and out of sorts, so this five hours of watching tiny stick men and flashing lights made me feel even worse. It was probably a good thing that I had a reason to get out in the fresh air.
All the sunny days I wasted skulking inside crouched over a computer (in the days before it was possible to be doing anything grubby unless you were turned on by very basic pixelated images), it was good to have added another one to the score. So that when I get to Heaven and they take down the ledger I will have something to be ashamed about in front of all the wasted sperms who missed out on the precious gift of life.
Back in 1983 I probably wouldn't have left a game at such an exciting point for a girl (who am I kidding? I would have gone if they'd asked, but they didn't so I stayed in) but I managed to tear myself away and allowed myself the luxury of a couple of pints of beer with my beautiful wife of almost seven weeks (that's how long we've been married, not how old she is - but it's probably how old my third wife is at the moment). We went to the Cock Inn, because I might be 44 but I am still 14 at heart. The difference now is that I didn't tell my date the reason we were going there was just because of the name, I just laughed to myself about it without her ever knowing. That's pretty much all it takes to be mature.
And nice to see the Leicester Square Theatre Podcast still doing well on iTunes, although that doesn't stop the odd moronic comment from people who don't like this free service, but rather than just thinking "ah well" decide to let the world know what they think. How about this for stupid, "Francesca Martinez sounded so drunk that I had to turn it off." Oh dear!
