This morning is Thursday. Thursday is usually heavily laced with optimism, almost better than Friday which has been tainted slightly by the 'dress down' concept; wearing jeans to the office
gets many people too excited, for reasons unknown that makes the whole thing nothing more than a false promise that manifests itself through the realization that the weekend only really lasts until Sunday morning. When thoughts of free time are taken hostage by Monday's heavy gravitational pull. You know you should be making the most of the day, but you're overcome by what is about to follow, of course you needn't worry because more than likely it'll be a fairly accurate reconstruction of what happened the previous week, which begs the question why so many people aren't in fact quite brilliant at their jobs. Goodness, if any day is need of marketing make over it's Sunday, because at present it should really be called Work Week Eve.
Whatever way we look at it, The summit of mount Thursday provides us with a moral boosting
view of Saturday. So much so that you want to savour it, Thursday's vision of Saturday could supersede it if it weren't for football. Saturday is afterall; football day. At Burridge much time is spent droning on at great length about team formations, the merits of moulded studs as opposed to screw in studs, often thorough autopsy reveals conclusively that the opposition who'd beaten us comprehensively were in fact utterly inferior to us, on the grounds that their meagre status didn't provide us with the motivation necessary to cut them to pieces with our play.
Recent times have seen new words and phrases enter our post match pub discussion without invite or notice, words such as mortgage & decorating. So often in the past my clumsy challenges have been met with protest; 'I've got to go to work on Monday' would be the dullards plea, so often I'd wanted to say that Giros can be delivered but resisted. But now at 27 I sit on Thursday's mount and I can see Saturday and it is not football day any longer, it is becoming thirty years old but still going to nightclubs with Bryn, will it ever end? Burridge's Saturday house is crumbling, internally disembowelled by our stale ranting. Three straight defeats are slowly destroying the fragile illusion that we've cherished - like David Bowie's netherworld in labyrinth - as we treat the ball like a Jehovah's witness at the doorstep, with contempt, we send it on its way to the neighbour we don't know, namely the opposition. So here's to garden centres, wall papering the spare bedroom and growing up. Will there be a place for me there? I don't know, but at least I've football to fall back on.