Dear Annoying Blonde Girl In The Bar On Sunday,
First of all, let me just say that I’m glad that you follow the beautiful game. America needs more football fans. Even if they make the unfortunate choice to follow Manchester United as you did. And I’m doubly excited to see a young woman who’s a follower of the sport. You don’t see too many of you, particularly sitting alone in a pub on a Sunday morning cheering your team on. But please. For the love of god.
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
Your horribly shrill commentary running throughout the match was not welcome. By anybody. Not least because your high-pitched whine threatened to break glass and induce aneurysms.
We’re very glad to see that you know everybody’s name on your team. Honest. But shouting “Come on Giggsy! Come on Wazza! Come on Tony!” on repeat every time a given player touches the ball is not a worthy undertaking. Nobody’s impressed with your ability to recall any one of 11 different players’ names as the moment requires. Maybe it would have been tolerable if you had given them advice (“Play it wide, Rooney.” “Get stuck in, Rafa”). Or occasionally yelled at dirty Arsenal players for their dirty antics. Or hell, even the old standby of screaming at the ref. But no. At no point did you deviate from your plan. Just “Come on _______.” For 90 minutes. Given the 501 attempted passes from United yesterday, you shouted someone’s name roughly every 10 seconds. And this assumes you didn’t shout at “Smallsy” and “Paddy” when Arsenal had the ball (but you did. oh god. you so very much did.)
Oh. And it’s not cute that you call them all by nicknames as if they’re your dearest friends. They’re not.
Which you highlighted when you decided to call Michael Carrick “Come on 16!” for the entire match. While you can be forgiven for forgetting about Carrick’s existence, you cannot be forgiven for your headlong refusal to be deterred from your misguided mission. If the only thing you know to do is yell players’ names, one would think that failing to know said player’s name would keep you from yelling at all. So why didn’t it? Was it for our benefit? Were you afraid the bar would miss your dulcet tones piercing through the commentary? Or was it for his? Did you think Mr. Sixteen would hear your dog-whistle monotone all the way in London and be inspired to greatness by your enthusiasm for the number on the back of his shirt?
And when the sound cut out on the satellite feed, and the only commentary left to us was the shrieking cry of a banshee clad in United red, did you think we appreciated the service? Because no. No no no. We did not. But you remained steadfast in your dissonant ignorance. And when a brave lone voice broke your monologue to tell you, “OI, SHUT THE FUCK UP!” did you heed those words? No? Then surely when this courageous soul was met with riotous applause and cheers from the watching crowd, surely then, you must have realized that perhaps your words were unwelcome? What’s that? Instead of turning down the dial, you exploded in a psychotic rage at your unidentified assailant?
“Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Say it to my face, bitch! WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT??! DON’T YOU FUCKING TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!! I’LL SAY WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!1ONE!!!!EXCLAMATIONPOINT”
I know, anonymous blonde girl from the pub. I can’t believe that didn’t help your cause either. So next time you find yourself in a public place watching a match, by all means support your team. But please, do it quietly. You never know, the man telling you to shut up next time could be Wayne Rooney himself. And he and your grandma need their peace and quiet.