You sit directly in front of bellowing lunatic whose indecipherable outbursts are accompanied by a downpour of phlegm and half-eaten burger. You spend an hour-and-a-half coaxing, straining, shouting at Ceefax to register a goal, only for a limp `O-O F/T` to appear on your screen.
You sit in a parked car at 4.45 on a Saturday afternoon, with the radio on, chewing your fingers to the bone, when you should be listening to the best man’s speech. You wonder exactly what was in that meat pie you ate at the game on Saturday.
You are living in The Extraordinary World of the Football Fan.