Nicky Marr: Football cast its spell, if only for a moment

I DIDN’T mean to watch the final of the World Cup on Sunday afternoon – I intended just to have it on in the background while I wallowed on the settee in recovery mode.

But my attempts to recharge after a shockingly indulgent Friday night, then dining, drinking, and dancing again on Saturday (I’m not proud, but it is Christmas) were thwarted by a carefully curated selection of talented young athletes in Qatar.

I don’t follow football. I’ve never followed football. My dad was more of an armchair athletics fan. Ski Sunday was our family religion during winter months, and I had a poster of Swede Slalom king Ingemar Stenmark on my bedroom wall, just beside my Abba poster.

There’s not been much football on our telly since I shacked up with Mr Marr either. He seems incapable of even feigning interest when it comes to 22 men (or women) and a round ball. So, I don’t have the passion, the investment, or the understanding of the offside rule that others profess.

Nor can I comprehend why players are paid so much, compared to nurses, teachers, doctors, and railway workers.

When it came out on Radio Scotland that I’d never been to a football match, I was challenged to report on the next Highland Derby. I turned up at what I’d thought was called Victoria Park, but which appeared to have been renamed the Global Energy Stadium. And I prepared to be entertained. To ‘get it’. To be swept up in the excitement and passion that grips a huge percentage of the nation and consumes an inordinate percentage of the BBC’s budgets.

Underwhelmed just doesn’t come close. Apart from some tremendous drumming and singing from the Jail End (which I had to ask them to censor so I could record it for broadcast) it was a case of the ball being kicked this way, then that, then back up our end again…

County fans, buoyed by their team’s recent victory in (I think!) the League Cup, were hoping for more of the same.

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Instead, as the players failed to recreate the magic of their last match, the drumming silenced. Fans’ heads fell. The players’ heads fell too. It was awkward. Uncomfortable. The family beside us left early. I didn’t even really like the pie.

But on Sunday afternoon, with the fire on, a blanket, and a restorative mug of tea, my best attempts to doze were thwarted.

Frankly, the commentary was awful, but there was sensational drama. The emotion of the crowd. The passion of the players. The goals, the extra-time, the yellow cards, the penalties. I had no skin in the game; no office sweepie, no real preference for who should win the coveted trophy. From behind my blanket, I couldn’t not watch. Neglected, the fire burned itself out.

‘So, is football always this good?’ I asked on social media. Apparently, it’s not. I’ve stood myself down. Normal service will be resumed, at least until 2026.