Football and Christmas have become inseparable bedfellows and fixtures played at this time of year assume an alluring glow of wintry heroism
Here it is, then. Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. Although only, it must be said, when judged against a list of other parts of the year that, deep down, nobody with any sense really likes that much.
You might disagree. But it doesn’t make any difference either way to Christmas, which is upon us once again like a vast, smothering weather front of duty and consumption, gushing in through every crack and open window, the usual gravy-soaked nightmare of ritual and repetition, cajoling acquisitiveness, unfulfilled desire, people hovering in the kitchen trying not to say things, undercut at all times by the distant, mocking impossibility of appearing even a fraction as happy as the people on television.


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