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My flatmate is a Manchester City fan,
used to the yin and the yang
whose Pavlovian expectation
is that promotion is inevitably and immediately
followed by relegation.
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I support Tottenham Hotspur
and consequently have
delusions of grandeur,
a belief that the laws of physics
have gone terribly wrong
if we don’t win the Cup
when the year ends in one.
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An unlikely hero. An Argentinian
bearded like George Best, Jesus Christ or Che Guevara*
making a run through the penalty box like a slalom skier,
at improbable angles for a man with the ball.
Even today, when I see replays of that run,
I still can’t believe he’ll actually score.
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But, as I remind my flatmate on average twice a month,
the ball always ends up in the back of Joe Corrigan’s goal.
My flatmate is a Manchester City fan.
I am an —-hole.