Football killed my girlfriend

Trevor Davis.

Apparently not everyone's a fan of the beautiful game, for it has shown the red card to my relationship and booted my girlfriend out of the door. I, however, had nothing to do with it. Us men are helpless when the Machiavellian football spirit comes between you and your girlfriend, it's not possible to say no and a wedge is driven straight through any couplet that gets in its way. My relationship finished with this era-defining question: So Trevor, what's more beautiful, the game of football or me?

Now from this question you'll probably have guessed that I wasn't going out with said girl because she asked insightful questions. One doesn't go out with this certain lady for in depth conversations over the portrayal of nihilism in Dostoevsky's Demons. I'm sure you get the idea – my ex was alright looking, but a little stupid. However, with a question such as this there is no real reason to think. I replied: "Of course you're not more beautiful my dear, you're the flea on football's back, the wart on the good game's nose, the annoying buzz in the Premiership's headphones." There was no real need to go that far, but I like a good turn of phrase.

To fully understand what caused this tragedy, I feel it's necessary to journey back to the beginning of the argument. The classic issue arose of whether I should be attending her mum's birthday meal or watching England play with my mates at the local pub. Clearly there's no real dilemma there. It helped that her mum was a complete and utter dragon, but I'd still have picked the football even her mum was a domestic goddess.

I took the matter to be so trivial that I didn't actually consider it to be an issue. When she readied an overnight bag for the two of us (we were supposed to be staying over), I was tumble drying my England shirt. When she was picking a bottle of wine to take, I was putting on my trainers and talking to a friend on my mobile. I gave the Mrs a quick nod and made my way to the door when her face suddenly became somewhat agitated – it didn't help that she was clutching a bottle of white wine like Jack Nicholson clutched an axe in The Shining.

"You're going where!" she screamed. It wasn't a question, more a direct threat as her hand became a little sweaty and the bottle seemed to move around in her grip. This was when I explained to her that football wasn't a game, it was a way of life, an important life-skill and something that generations remembered. Her mum, however, would wilt in the brewery bin of history. This was when she popped the question and I gave her an answer. She cried, picked up her bag and stormed out. Never let a girl get in the way of football, you'll live to hate yourself and her; best to just let her go.