That’s Loki, Mare of Easttown, Better Call Saul, and The Walking Dead all spun up on my telly box for viewing between now and July 11.
In fact, I might even watch Star Trek: The Original Series from beginning to end. Again.
Anything rather than be subjected to a single minute of the tedium of the Euros and the jingoistic flag-waving tsunami that is sweeping all in its path.
Football is not my thing. Never has been. I blame my dad – a dyed-in-the-wool Hearts fan who took me to every game at Tynecastle when I was wee, reserve matches, the lot.
My earliest memories are being lifted over a turnstile at Gorgie Road wearing a neatly pressed maroon tracksuit and not understanding or caring about a single thing happening on the pitch. I was more interested in getting the attention of the boy with the tray going round the track selling chewing gum.
More concerned about missing Basil Brush than football
After that it was finding ways to zone out the shouting, swearing, aggressive grown men around me, while fighting down utter boredom and worrying I would miss Basil Brush. Little wonder I have a rich interior life and a hatred of Bovril.
Now, I would be quite happy to leave football well alone but it just won’t let me – especially during these big tournaments that get everyone so excited when they come along what feels like every six months.
It means that my normal quiet natter with mates down the pub becomes pointless. Either I can’t hear them for all the fuss around adults playing a kid’s game on the telly, or I become acutely aware of the fact my pals are looking over my shoulder at said game while pretending they’re not.
I suppose I should be grateful I have good chums who at least kid-on they indulge my hatred of the not-at-all beautiful game.
At least we Scots are just happy to be there for once and, from what I gather from my football fan friends, have zero expectations of doing anything much
While football is bad enough, I can’t be doing with the way it gets ramped up to the Nth degree when our national team is playing. That’s England by the way. Or it is according to the national media.
Subjected to spirit of 1966
For the Euros, they do seem to be catching themselves every so often and remembering that, ahem, Scotland and Wales are there too. But as soon as they’ve paid lip service to that, it’s back to how Engerlund are going to sweep all before them.
At least we Scots are just happy to be there for once and, from what I gather from my football fan friends, have zero expectations of doing anything much.
Not so down the road, unfortunately. And we will be subjected to the spirit of 1966 being trotted out with nauseating regularity and told in great detail of each cough and sneeze of “our brave boys” and a nation’s march to glory. Every. Single. Minute. Of. It.
Heaven forfend England actually wins. We’ll be hearing about it for another 55 years.
In the meantime, I’m off to binge on boxsets and movies. Now, where can I stream Braveheart?
Scott Begbie is entertainment editor for The Press & Journal and Evening Express
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