I don't really watch football anymore. But even I couldn't miss the fact that Wycombe were in the fourth round of the FA Cup against Spurs (see this hilariously cute video of The Boys finding out their opposition in the draw), and got my diary out to mark in the date to find that - CURSES! I was away all weekend recording avant-garde jazz at real World Studios. I would have to follow updates on the wireless, by which I mean Twitter. I also then remembered that my bandmate and sax player, Chris Williams, was a dyed-in-the-wool, slaveringly rabid Spurs fan. Hmm.
Here's my log of the game.
0 mins: I am in my vocal booth and have to turn my phone off. ARGH.
45 mins: I emerge from a bout of jazz wailings. Chris Williams shows me his phone. 2-0 to Wycombe. TWO-GODDAMNED-NIL! It is Christmas and New Year's Eve on the strike of midnight and my birthday! I do a little gnomish sort of dance and fireworks go off inside me.
Half-time: Miraculously, we are not needed for the next tune. Chris gets his laptop and gets us to his highly illegal viewing platform (because watching football is his fourth basic human need), complete with arbitrary pop-ups and adverts at inopportune moments. I am most excited.
48 mins: Chris reminds me how football works, what with me not really watching it any more. Chris knows everything about football, and who the players are, and who they used to play for, and who some of the Wycombe players are. There is a Spurs midfielder called HARRY WINKS.
49: OOO! Look at Wycombe's shirts! They're awful. They have stripey bits on the quarters, for no reason. Our sponsor is BEECHDEAN DAIRY ICE CREAM.
52 mins: I find that even though I barely remember how many players are on each side, that my stomach has gnawed itself away to the size of a small pea and I am trembling.
53 mins: OH MY GOD LOOK AT OUR STRIKER. Akinfenwa is literally the size of a block of flats. I could move into him. He is the biggest football player I have ever seen. Every time he appears on screen, I make a grunting cave-bear noise and Chris chuckles.
57 mins: We have a keeper who looks like a real football player. He is DELIGHTFUL IN PINK. Almost everyone else looks like they've come from their stint running the fruit market on the high street. The entirety of the Spurs team look like beautiful polished racehorses.
59 mins: Hmm. Spurs look strong. I am sitting on only one inch of sofa and feel a little fragile.
60 mins: Janssen scores. 2-1. Obviously they are now going to have a landslide, a vile SLURRY of goals and we will be horribly defeated.
64 mins: Penalty to Spurs. 2-2. Well, yes, you SEE. I know what I am talking about when it comes to football, you know. Chris celebrates discreetly.
70-ish mins: Spurs' Trippier has some sort of nasty side injury and goes off. They are down to ten men. We will probably still lose, because we are Wycombe and they are Spurs. I hate football.
80-ish mins: I am curled up into a small ball and my pulse is erratic. All is lost. This is the worst thing ever.
84 mins: WE SCORE AN AMAZING GOAL AND WYCOMBE ARE THE BEST AND OH MY GOD I LOVE THEM WHY DID I STOP WATCHING FOOTBALL THIS IS BETTER THAN EVERYTHING WE ARE GOING TO BEAT THEM OH MY GOD WE WILL BE IN THE FIFTH ROUND WE ARE FA CUP GIANTKILLERS OH MY GOD (Chris smiles graciously).
89 mins: We are still in the lead and I love them. My noble darling dearest heroes! Gareth Ainsworth, how I have missed you even though you look so very ravaged now, like one of the Prezzes on Mount Rushmore or Matthew McConaughey in his latter roles. I should probably marry you.
90 mins: The ref gives six mins of extra time. I vomit (almost).
94 mins: Spurs score. 3-3. I roll off the sofa and hit the floor repeatedly with my hands. Chris says he will happily settle for an away match replay. I say I will settle for an away match replay.
95 mins: The illegal site we are watching the match on disappears. I scramble for Twitter, which informs me that Spurs have scored again in the last seconds (REVISION: 6'10, sickeningly). 4-3.
96 mins: Stupid football. Stupid everything.