There are a few things about my life that I tend to keep quiet about. This is one of them. Although I have always admitted that there are things that are never going to be mentioned on here – either because they are too mundane, too gross or just because I don’t want to mention them – I do try not to leave out the potentially embarrassing ones. Torn between not thinking people need to know this and not wanting to leave out something that makes me look a bit silly, I thought I would mention this one after all.
You see, Memory Bloggers, I have a confession to make.
I’m a qualified football referee
There, I’ve said it. In my defence, I didn’t do it for long and I only did it because I remembered a couple of boys I was at school doing it. If truth be told, I wasn’t that good at it and didn’t find it as much fun as I thought I would.
I used to referee a side called the Timperley Big Shorts about once every four weeks, which was a sure sign that whoever was doing referee assignments for Manchester hated me. That side was the brainchild of a man named Chris Sievey, who was the genius behind this, the unfunny berk behind this and a complete tvvat if ever allowed near a football pitch. Fortunately, he used to leave the actual games to people who could play the game. Unfortunately, selection seemed to be based upon how much of a pain in the rear you could be. I once had to send one of their players off after the game had finished, they were that bad – and I had already sent their right back off during the match as well.
There’s a movie being made of Sievey’s life and for all of the eulogising that followed his untimely and penurious death, I hope there won’t be any sepia tinting of this part of his life.
I gave up refereeing when I moved down south. Eventually I started playing rugby again instead. Being kicked in the head actually is preferable to dealing with most footballers, even those whose ambition extends no further than a Sunday morning park game.