It’s 13:30 on a Saturday. You stare down at a half-eaten sandwich, the one you thought would sort you out but hasn’t. It sits as a monument to your depravity on the sofa next to you, tucked neatly between the paracetamol and the water. It is rapidly going stale, much like you are.
“Fucking train” you groan, summoning what is left of your willpower to double over forwards and get to your feet. Standing up is a bit of a rush, probably did it a bit quick, grasp at the sofa, close call.
Sweep your wallet off the table to find it’s surprisingly heavy with change. Pull out the receipts and tear them up. Better not look at the time on them, second thoughts, just don’t look at them at all.
Right, got wallet, now keys, phone. Swipe away the 15 Instagram DM notifications all saying variants of “what the fuck are you on about, I was asleep”. Airplane mode.
Find your trainers from last night, they’re covered in an unspecified substance and the soles are all tacky and weird but they’ll do. Need to leave quick sharp, Southern Rail waits for no man, time waits for no man.
Double check the door is locked properly because you’re a bit prangy, whip to the offie, two Red Stripe, a Lucozade Sport and some Nik Naks because you panicked at the till.
Station, ticket, platform eight, two minutes, try to jog, bad idea, find the carriage with the lads “What did YOU get up to last night then” don’t reply just crack that tin, we’re here.
You’re off to the footie.
All that. All that misery, all that stress, all that brown sauce on your jeans, it was all worth it, right? Too fucking right it was worth it you think as you knock through the turnstile at the ground, you’ve had two tins now and you’re back in the game.
Straight to bar, cash only, get into the stand, sun out but still a bit nippy, doesn’t fucking matter. You’re here. Football isn’t coming home so you’ve come home to football.
It’s Saturday and it’s always live in Non League.