It’s The End Of The Season As We Know It ~ And I Feel Fine.



This time of year brings us a week’s worth of sunshine in April, where we all go insane and burn ourselves on Brighton beach and then moan about the dip in temperature a week later when we get nothing but sodding rain, and it’s not even proper – the world is going to end – rain…it’s drizzle; lots of it. We get a heat wave the tabloids lap up like a thirsty little kitty and then use as an excuse to feature two pages of beautiful people with very little in the way of clothes on them. God bless ‘em.

We have a selection of bank holidays, which us Brits fill with binge drinking, the likes of which the planet has never seen.

Blossom is on the trees, birds fill the air with their chorus of annoyingly chipper tweets (not them) and chirps. Something is just around the corner. It’s almost in reach, the anticipation for it is tangible. It is the end of one cycle, and the beginning of another. For some, it is joyous and liberating and filled with love and laughter. For others, it transforms their days into never-ending marathons of boredom and unfulfillment. Dare I say it, it’s life-affirming (ugh).

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies, to the end of the soccer, I mean football season. Sky Sports is dead, long live the summer. Blow those trumpets, organise a street party and invite the entire street. Apart from the Sommervilles at No.26. Nobody likes them. Show-offs. ‘Oooh, look at our Tesla’, and ‘yes, he is a rare breed, I think he’s half Alsatian, half Tibetan unicorn.’

Forget the Sommervilles. We are now entering the great British In-between. A glorious annual event that needs to be celebrated (by most) and enjoyed. Just like the average man’s libido, it does not hang around for long. It is the briefest of things, do more than whisper its arrival, and it vanishes into the ether. It’s like a holiday fling on a cheap, Greek island. It consumes you, and envelopes you in a false sense or forever and ultimately ends. You try to phone it, only to find that you have been given the wrong number.

No more keeping your friends at arm’s length, no more arranging your social activities around the bastard football. We are free, we are many…let’s ‘ave it. Get him indoors to fish out the barbecue from the shed. This wonderful food-burning contraption has been the domain of men since before the Crusades. Let him be a man. Invite your friends round for a proper knees-up in the great British sun. Raise those plastic glasses from Sainsbury’s and consume Pimm’s, even though you don’t like it; it’s the law.

Saturdays are transformed. They are a blank canvass and we are…Prosecco? I meant Picasso. Take your brush and paint. Take your man by the hand and frolic in the meadows and feed ducks along the river. Whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears and fill the warm, British air with l’amour.

Screw that. Beer gardens are a thing now. The sun is out, so every landlord/lady with a patch of grass out back has been to B&Q, hidden the bins under some tarp and created a haven for us summer drinkers. We are the flies to their…poo? Your fella is almost charming now and exudes a positive glow, unshackled by the devil that is Sky Sports. It’s like dating all over again. Download the don’teventhinkaboutsport.exe and watch him go. He dares not entertain the cricket, as this can seriously dent his pub cred and you find this only marginally less tedious than Ant & Dec. The world is yours once again. Hoorah.

It’s a season where you need not worry about erratic mood swings and juvenile sulks. He might even be romantic and bring you back a steak bake from Greggs (I said might) and an Irn Bru to wash it down with. But you won’t hear,

“Sorry babe, United are at home.”


“Me and the lads are watching the game, didn’t I text you?”

No more of that, sonny Jim. For the next several weeks/months, you will devote all your time and attention to me, and not some mono-syllabic, balding presenter on TV. I am your Goddess and you will obey me…or something like that. Seriously, I’m not a ball-breaker, but if you don’t…

Picnics. Walks (yes walks) in the sunshine. Trips to the coast. All these are possibilities now, you just need to reach out and grab them.

This mini summer within a summer is yours for the taking; you deserve it. It’s a respite from the male machine, it’s your ticket outta here. Where? Anywhere! It’s a chance to get him to paint the bloody bathroom. Use it.

A word of warning though ladies, especially in this year of turmoil and upset. We know that these times are fleeting and we must squeeze every drop from the soggy flannel of life. But this year our time with this little beauty is even shorter.  


Because it’s bloody World Cup year.

Bastard football.

Jason Moody for Pf Magazine

Jason Moody


Lazy sod. Husband. Writer. Brentford FC fan.




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