Dribbling

Watching the Champions League final last night left me a little cold. I didn't really care who won.

Watching football through the plastic film of neutrality is an alienating experience. I can usually muster up some kind of tenuous allegiance (maybe I'll support the home team, maybe I'll support the team with the best hair, maybe I'll cheer for the Spanish side because I like tapas). But I couldn't manage it last night. I sort of wanted the English league to be proved superior, but I'm genetically incapable of supporting Man United.

Anyway, the most interesting part of the game happened just after the half-time whistle. The camera zoomed in on Thierry Henry walking off the pitch, just in time to catch him in a clumsy gob.

He was going for a traditional footballer's spit, but must have misjudged and it was a messy affair, dribbling over his chin, no trajectory, a calamitous flob, a saliva explosion. He looked decidedly undignified - decidedly un-Henry.

It was the kind of spitting that I probably would have done. I was never a very good spitter, and never really attempted it. All the cool kids spat (well, the boys anyway). You can measure street-cred in pints of saliva. I always lacked the confidence.

But I didn't expect it of Henry.

If you'd asked me before the game how Thierry Henry would spit, I would have a very specific idea.

It would emerge from his delicately puckered lips, precise as a dodecahedral gemstone, propelled with grace, arcing beautifully, glittering as it catches the light, swooping and diving into a bejewelled spittoon on the sideline.

It would splash musically, sending concentric ripples outwards, tickling the calm tropical waters contained therein, where brightly-coloured tropical birds - flamingoes, toucans, Cuban red macaws - bathed annd fluttered. Nearby, vestal virgins would be at peace, pouring cascading water from large, ornate, earthenware vases. The moon would be full.

That's what I would have said.

It's sad to have your illusions shattered.

I didn't see the paradise spittoon anywhere. I suppose it might have distracted players at throw-ins. The linesman would have needed to wade.

Annoyingly, I didn't get to see any of the other Barca forwards attempt to spit. I imagine Samuel Eto'o would get some good distance, as his surname sounds a bit like loogie onomatopoeia. And I'm sure Lionel's spitting technique would be anything but Messi.

(No-one has ever made the Messi = messy joke before. Ever.)

This entry has been slightly disgusting. I apologise. Next time I'll write about something irrefutably pleasant. Like a cold chocolate milkshake.

Or a comb.

You can't argue with combs.