There is absolutely nothing sexy about girls that are into football.  I realised this at approximately 9.47pm yesterday as I threw my hands into the air, muttered a handful of expletives, and stormed out of Ewood Park.  I admit it, I welled.

We've all been subjected to the images of unfeasibly attractive Latino women, posing provocatively in front of camera wearing a Brazil shirt and little else.  But the reality is that football for girls just ain't pretty.

I am a fan of a, shall we say, 'modest' Premier League club, currently battling at the foot of the table on the cusp of relegation.  It's not fun.  In fact most weeks I sit frozen, staring bleakly at the pitch, wound up like a spring coil and hoping against hope that this time, perhaps just once, we won't f**k it up.  Inevitably, I end up disappointed.  Last night was no different.  To all intents and purposes, my perpetually struggling team was gifted a golden opportunity to take 3 points from a significantly weakened bigger club.  Naturally, however, we fought to near-death and then gave it all away at the end. 

Now, I'm aware of that age-old theory that girls go to the football to look at the boys' legs.  And I'll admit that, though not the critics choice, I do hold a pretty substantial candle for Andy Carroll.  Alarmingly, I think it's the hair.  But last night, as I looked on in despair at his 90th-minute shot sailing over the line, I experienced absolutely no sentiment for his legs.  In fact, I can confirm that given the opportunity, I would have relished delivering a swift blow to the bollocks.  Instead, I vented my frustration via the medium of discourse, specifically, 'do one Carroll you long-haired f**king gypo.'  Eloquence, thy name is Laura.

My point is that I don't follow football to be cool, or so that I can chat to boys nonchalantly about the offside rule.  I don't follow football because I fancy the players or because I aspire to have Wayne and Colleen's lifestyle.  I follow football because Blackburn Rovers are part of my childhood, adolescence and (disconcertingly) expanding adulthood.  I follow them because, like my parents and grandparents, and their parents and grandparents, and their... you get the picture - that team represents my home.  It's probably not cool, and it definitely isn't sexy, but God I love my club.

Fat Mates (pt. 2)

This holiday weekend, my fat-mate and I have indulged.  We have feasted, troughed and crammed-into and around our mouths any form of edible matter within reach, and as a result, I will be rolling to bed tonight.

It started on Friday evening.  We had guests staying, so rather than whip up a culinary masterpiece, we took to Manchester’s Northern Quarter and introduced our friends to a fine eatery knows as Dough.  The clue really is in the name.  Washed down with a couple of sugar-crammed cocktails, and a number of Jagerbombs thrown in for the final flourish, Saturday brought with it the standard junk-food onslaught commonly employed following an alcohol-fuelled evening.  Coupled with the fact that Saturday soon became an apparent party-day, it would be wise not to dwell on the likely number of calories consumed.  We enjoyed a steady onset I grant you, but when the beer comes out at 12pm, followed by crisps, dips and more Jagerbombs before tea, you know the calorie counter is under full strain.

And so came Sunday; Easter Sunday, no less.  Today, we have mastered the art of continuous grazing.  Literally from the moment we arose, tired and thick-headed, to this very hour, 11:17pm - I have done nothing but prepare food, eat food or think about the next foodstuff that I can get my hands on and shove in the general direction of my face.  

Unwisely, we chose to do this whilst slumped unattractively in front of the entire Season 4 of Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw parading before us in an array of delightful crop-top and hot-pants combos; an array which did a fine job of reminding us that our own crop-top and hot-pant days are over.  Chinese food, crisps, Haribo and Easter-eggs(pl.) behind me, in a moment of madness, I opted to follow-up my tortuous SATC marathon with a good old flick through Elle magazine.  After eating so much that the trip from the living room to my bedroom seemed unlikely without the need for considerable brow-mopping and a danger of chaffing, a publication which proudly declares itself Britain’s best-loved fashion magazine, probably wasn't the most astute choice.  Settling on an interview with Emily Blunt, a lovely girl-next-door type English-rose, I had foolishly assumed safety.  And then there it was.  “It’s clear from her tiny frame that she might spend more time on the treadmill than she suggests.”  Pfft.

We all know that nobody can eat what they want and continue to slip gracefully into anything and look great.  I’m never going to be Carrie Bradshaw – size 6 just isn’t on the cards for me.  But I know that with due care and attention I could be thinner and, sorry sisters, but I think it would make me happier.  Yes, anywhere with an abundance of complex carbs is a happy place for me, but cancel out the number of hours spent agonising about weight, the things that I can and cannot wear and whether or not my arms look big in this, and my life would be a happier place.  A realisation only reinforced by my recent alarming discovery that this season's must-have is the 'Bralet'.

Carrie Bradshaw, eat your heart out.

So tonight, I face the final curtain.  My fat-mate doesn't know yet but I am finally admitting defeat and embarking upon a diet.  Armed with my trusty Elle magazine and an article aptly named 'The Real Reason You're Not Losing Weight', I am setting out with renewed determination, impending gym membership, and a mental picture of Emily Blunt.

Lettuce with a side of nothing, please. Sob.

Fat-mates

Last Thursday marked exactly one month since we moved into the new flat, and so I find myself with little excuse for the idol telly-watching, chocolate-scoffing and wine-guzzling (oh yes, I'm back there again), that routinely comes with the 'holiday-period' following a move.

Since you ask, the move went delightfully well.  The two bedrooms are ample sized, and have been fitted out in a manner which appropriately conveys the singular personalities of their respective occupants.  My flat-mate's pink and green floral boudoir channels on-trend girly chic, and mine looks like a library.  We've met somewhere in the middle for the kitchen/living room, have swept-up and furnished the balcony with pot plants, and established where the fit boys live in the block opposite.  In fact, in these penniless, work-governed weeks, lounging on the balcony with sunglasses on, peering inconspicuously into the flats opposite and judging their occupants has become an established weekly bonding ritual for my flat-mate and I.  As we retire to our rooms on a Sunday night, Monday morning looming threateningly before us, we could almost call-out, 'same again next week?', and expect to find each other there, 9am next Saturday morning, sunglasses on.

Another thing I have noted with interest since moving into this new residence is that most people in this day and age have little contact with geese.  I, however, can't seem to detach myself from the tempestuous fowl.  I had envisaged awakening for the first morning in my new bed to be an almost heavenly encounter.  We had been looking forward to the move for so long that my mind had occupied otherwise redundant hours by conjuring an image akin to the opening scene of Cinderella - I would wake to the happy chirrups of birdsong, basking in rays of sunlight streaming through the window, before my woodland friends merrily made a start on the chores. Instead I was woken abruptly on a grey Manchester morning to the brash tones of Canadian geese just outside the window.

So we've been here a grand total of 32 days, and other than spying on fit boys, wishing sudden death upon the geese, and drinking £2.99 Aldi wine, we have focussed most of our attention on eating.  Such is the joy of selecting an equally food-friendly flatmate. Or fat-mate.