For many, sport is life’s single most interesting, dramatic and exciting outlet.
Unfortunately, not everyone is of the same opinion.
Step forward our Anti-Fan, who has no interest in nor understanding of this concept.
We wanted to change their mind by letting them get some first-hand experience.
Every week they’ll review a different event and allow us to not only see the world of sport through their eyes, but maybe even convert them to the dark side as well!
The Season Ticket Team.
Sports isn’t just sports.
There is an entire industry of sponsorships, merchandise, and media adaptations, a bit like Star Wars or Beyonce.
This revelation led me to an advert from Casillero del Diablo, featuring players from Manchester United.
Man United are known as ‘Those guys who wear red’, because they wear red.
They’re a pretty big deal in football because their players are in Heat magazine a lot, and their jerseys can often be seen on young men being turned away from nightclubs.
The ad opens in the famous Manchester United thunderdome, Old Trafford.
The camera pans up to an expensive spectators booth where we see a man who looks like Shrek had he was forced to join the Aryan brotherhood in order to survive prison.
This noble beast is Wayne Rooney, Man Utd’s prize sports-troll.
‘Guys. We. Have. A. Prob. Lem.’, he chomps out with the eloquence of a text-to-speech, device speaking Wookie.
I’m quite impressed, I know it took them years to train Coco the gorilla to use sign language, I can only imagine how long it took to teach Rooney man-speak.
Patrice Evra, a Frenchballer, who until that point seems to have been staring pensively at his own shoes looks up at Rooney with a look reminiscent of a teenager who’s just realised he forgot to clear his search history before he let his granny use his laptop.
‘Thebossaidanewdevilisarriving’, Rooney slur-grunts with the cadence of a hungover bear.
‘Is he well known?’ Asks Ryan Giggs, the renowned “away from home” player with the fake-serious inflection of a babysitter humouring a toddler.
‘Famous round the world’, says Evra, who should have let Rooney answer. He’ll never learn if you don’t let him try, Patrice.
Giggs, who is for some reason clutching a football, looks perturbed, like he suddenly remembered something frightening, like the bleak inevitability of death, or that clowns exist.
The scene switches and a fireball inexplicably shrieks across London.
Giggs, looking like the most incredulous man in the world asks, ‘What did they say about him?’
‘They. Say. ‘e is a legend.’ replies Rooney with the mournful routine of a trained animal forced to perform in some grim Russian circus.
The fireball streaks into Old Trafford and explodes for no particular reason. Rooney looks at the camera, flames ruddy his brutish visage, an image straight out of Mordor.
For a second I worry if Gondor is in danger.
The flames clear, revealing that the fiery comet was in fact wine, the type of wine you bring to a party that’s too classy for Dutch Gold.
The advert told me nothing about the wine other than it slightly scares footballers.
I also feel that it is cruel to remove Rooney from his natural habitat and confine him indoors. Poor thing.