The bastard gods are conspiring against me.
Last night Celtic get a result against the forces of footballing darkness and now I'm succumbing to Reidski's patter about Celtic having a chance of snatching sweet victory from the jaws of rancid defeat. So what's my problem?
Only that Celtic are playing R*ngers again on the 26th when a victory for the Bhoys would really contribute to squeaky bum time for Wally and Ally's smarmy army.
And rather than me nursing a lukewarm coffee at nine in the morning in a 'oirish' bar in Manhattan - whilst watching the game through my fingers - on that day, I'll be getting my arse in gear for doing a stall for the WSPUS at this year's Brooklyn's Peace Fair. Surely there's something in the small print of the Faustian pact I signed with the SPGB/WSM all those years ago about a conflicting situation such as this?
What would Julius Martov* have done in the same circumstances?
* I'm pegging Martov as a Fenerbahçe fan. Makes sense, as they were formed the same year - 1907 - as yet another falling out between the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks. I bet Lenin was one of those politico wankers who would have argued that footie was a diversionary tactic from revolution. Yes, you know who you are.