You choose a team. You choose a place to sit . You choose your new family. Choose a fucking big television to watch games played in 3-D slo-motion High Definition megatron action. Choose gnomes painted in club colours, nodding dogs, and electrical tin can openers. Choose a club branded pie and mineral water, bottled by hand in Iraq and club sponsored dental insurance. Choose your season ticket which now costs more than a two week holiday in Marbella. Choose your personalised over-priced home shirt that will be changed in a year’s time. Choose club-branded leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece club branded sofa on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics with a huge club crest embossed on the cushions. Choose Soccer AM and wondering who the fuck you are and what you are doing with your life on a Saturday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing bottom of the table Premier League fodder, trying to pretend they are worthy of a place on the gravy train, yet actually all they are concerned with is getting one more point than three other teams just so they can repeat the whole lot again the following season. Choose rotting away at the end of a Saturday night watching the Football League show for the 20 seconds of highlights of teams you don’t care about nor actually have any idea where they actually play, watching Premier League has been’s and want to be’s who will be nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up fans we all are, idolising them for 30 seconds before they follow the money to somewhere else, claiming “they’ve always been a big XYV FC fan” whilst not knowing anything about the history of the club. . . . But why would you want to do a thing like that? We don’t get to choose not to choose that: We are the chosen generation. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got football…Bloody football.