There are a few times in the year when Craig and I bicker over the telly. He’s really into some pretty yawn-worthy documentary’s about wildlife and traveling. I can’t think of anything worse than watching some C list celebrity visit faraway places I’ll never be able to afford to go myself, or sitting through a whole hour of David Attenborough whispering when I can skip right to the action on YouTube in less than 30 seconds. But mostly our arguments centre on sport.
You see, Craig is Manchester United fan. I say fan… in fact, he’s more of a fanatic. If it was toss-up between my 40th birthday party (in around twenty years time *cough cough*) or a chance to have a beer with stoney-faced Alex Ferguson or past-it Roy Keane, he’d sack me off and head off to the pub. This is what happens every other Saturday or Sunday anyway. As we no longer have Sky Sports here as we feel it’s too expensive, ironically he’ll go and join countless other middle-aged men crowded around a tiny flat screen and spend money on overpriced beer at the pub instead. Meanwhile I’m left holding the baby on my evening off.
The only advantage football has for me is that it acts like a form of hypnotherapy and sends me to sleep. The deep green of the pitch and players chasing after the ball, the largely boring commentary, the lack of adverts… I’m guaranteed to nod off. Cup matches are great as they’re on terrestrial telly and I can insist Craigy stays in and takes care of Dexter whilst I have a nap listening to the action.
Every four years I try to get into it. I subscribe to the idea that it’s impossible not to get excited about the World Cup. But every year I watch a bunch of overpaid young men take to the pitch and perform with less enthusiasm than a Sunday league side down the local recreation ground. If they ever find themselves benched too many times, there’s always a glittering career in action films as some of the dramatic dives look infinitely more painful than the trips themselves.
I’m definitely more of rugby girl. There’s something far sexier about warrior-like, scratched and bruised men go at it as though their lives depended on it. That’s bravery right there. Heading headfirst into another man of bus-like proportions to get a try and man-slaps from your team mates. Yes please!
There’s so much more to rugby than football. There’s referee meddling, tv match officials, and real aggression on display. I’ve been Twickenham a few times now and the atmosphere is so amazing and good-natured compared to the football terraces. No better is this illustrated than by the fact that fans are entrusted to take draft beers to their seats and it’s so child-friendly.
When football and rugby clash on the tv - there’s bound to be clashes between Craig and I. We’ll both want to go hands free down the pub and have Dexter looked after by the other one. If it’s the Six Nations I usually start my childcare campaign against Craig a good month before so I stand a better chance of winning. It’s usually a tough battle as the Six Nations is often available on the BBC whereas his footy is all pay-per-view. My determination shows no bounds though and I’ve sunk to some ridiculous and degrading depths to get what I want. Last year I offered out massages for a whole month for my two hours hands free time down the pub.
For the 2014 Six Nations I’m considering going one better and getting tickets to watch a match live. For Twickenham, at £250 a throw, he can’t possibly argue that he won’t take Dexie for the day. Better yet, I could bag Italy vs England tickets at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome for just £26 on Seatwave! At that price we could get some cheap flights and head there together. Even he wouldn’t pass that one up for a football match… Surely…
So how do you keep childcare fair with your other half? Have you ever used an expensive bribe to win some hands-free time?
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