There is no escape.
If you've no interest in the football, like the lad I found myself sat aside last week in the Morkesh Bor, then you're drowning in a sea of hyperbole. You seek solace away from the indignation of the media and head for town in the pissings of rain only to find a sea of Euro 88 replica shirts with torches at the ready, ready to march on the French embassy, citing the blood (fucking BLOOD, like!) on the hands of Henry as their imperative.
If you love your fitba, you've to put up with the so-called reasoned heads telling us all to cop on, that babies are dying in Bi-Africa, that Brian Cowen is trying to eat the country, that NAMA is coming to steal our beer money, that people are being airlifted from their homes in Cork, that the public sector and the private sector and the soccer sector are all going to converge in a glorious re-enactment of the opening scene of 'Gangs Of New York' - 'Gangs Of Westland Row' - unless we cop the fuck on and go back to worrying about our future without doing a fucking thing about it.
Where do I stand? I've moved on to worrying about what I'll have for lunch. Soup is the frontrunner but I'm open to cheese on toast.