a forty third story...'there's kids in here'

..There goes someone, at it.  Havin’ it.  You feel a spike of hatred, blind fury, rage.  But first time you catch yourself.  Perhaps the lad behind has got Tourettes, or some form of learning disability..And here go the opposition, streaming forward again.  Your fingers are crossed, your arms are folded, your body contorts with every cross that drops into the box, every near miss.  It’s agony.  Watching your team – the weekend revolves around it.  But at moments like these, you wonder why.  You wonder: why do I even like football?  Then again you know, you have to be there for your boys, in front of that screen, in that pub with that halfwit who supports the enemy mouthing off behind you.  The enemy/opposition have a corner, you grit your teeth.  Here comes the delivery.  In a flash you stake your life on one moment, just clear the fucking ball, out, away.  Get a bloody head on it!  For a moment you’d sacrifice your girlfriend, your job, even your family to see the ball punted clear of your goal or sailing harmlessly over the bar.  Gnnnnnnr. And then the sucker punch, the sickening blow.  The ball glances off the forehead of an onrushing opposition attacker and into the goal.  As the net bulges and the opposition players wheel away arms in the air in celebration, the lad behind explodes with vicious delight.  ‘FUCKING YES, FUCKING HAVE IT, YOU CUNTS!’ .  He’s joined by his ‘mates’.  ‘GET IN, YA BASTARD, FUCKING CLASS!’  In an instant you are wishing death on him as well as his conniving mates.  And if it were possible, if you were the fighting type, if you were only more than average in every physical respect you would administer the punishment.  Your blood is hot, hot, your skin is beginning to blister, your anger is in danger of boiling over.  But you know you’ve only got your wit.  And that’s never enough.  ‘FUCKING UNITED…CUNTS, FUCKING CUNTS’, the lad again, that fucking Liverpool fuck, that fucking Scouse bastard, that fucking attitude, that fucking sense of fucking entitlement.  You’ve had it with him, but what can you do?  You look around for a pool cue, an umbrella with a sharp end, a piece of pub clobber you can bludgeon him with.  And then, there in the corner of the room, you notice for the first time your weapon.  You turn around, and face him, in his ugly red shirt, with the ugly badge with the ugly red dragon on the crest and the two justice flames licking the sides.  You search quickly for your most commanding tone.  And somehow you find it and injecting a bit of menace for good measure you look at him directly in his small, mean eyes and say firmly: ‘Do YOU wanna cool it, mate? There’s KIDS in here!’.