The Beautiful Game is on its last legs

Relax. It's OK. I'm not talking a full-on footy-phobia here. Just the usual gut-wrenching, blood-boiling, loathing of what we used to call The Beautiful Game.

Not convinced? Picture Robbie Savage and Steve Claridge picking up their BBC pay cheques and tell me you don't feel a twinge.

Hard-core readers may want to go for the Garth Crooks option here, but please seek doctor's advice first.

Maybe you just can't see it. Like Fergie never sees any of his players do anything wrong. Or Arsene Wenger, who famously never sees anything at all.

I hate it for its cheating; the way it makes a six-foot-tall brick-outhouse athlete fall over at the slightest touch.

For the way it excuses such blatant fraud as 'part of the game' and meekly accepts it instead of tackling the issue.

For the way patronising old pros tell us that we don't understand because we've 'never played the game'.

(They're right in one way I suppose; I've never played it like that.)

I hate it for its vulgarity; from the habitual swearing in the stands to the spitting and the snarling at officials, from parks to Premier League and all points in between.

I hate it for its obscenity; paying players tens of thousands a week, then watching them spend it on the worst clothing known to man.

Nothing says 'naff' like footballers' fashion.

Speaking of which, I hate it for its £40 polyester replica shirts, squeezed into by people who think the best way to react to defeat is smashing up their own ground.

I hate it for its disingenuous handshakes, stupid haircuts and moronic tattoos.

I hate it for being awash with money but morally bankrupt.

For stitching the word 'Respect'up on players' sleeves without explaining to them what it means.

For agents pimping players like backstreet prostitutes in West London car parks.

For the pointless prattling of WAGs and the media-speak post-match utterances to the press.

Most of all though, I hate it for getting me out of my seat with excitement over two teams I neither know nor care about on the last day of the season.

For making me do the Madness walk round my front room after beating Hartlepool away on a school night.

For still taking my breath away with a sublime piece of skill from Messi, Bergkamp or Henry (Thierry, not Karl).

For shattering stereotypes by throwing up a Craddock or Phillips for every Bothroyd or Odemwingie.

For clouding my memory with the joy of last minute winners, incredible comebacks and Frank Worthington flicks.

For clogging my wardrobe up with 30-year-old pieces of polyester that I cannot and will not ever throw out.

For making me spend hundreds of pounds following a team from a city 90 miles away that I havent lived in for 25 years.

For making my heart beat faster.

For giving me endless debates, laughs and pub trivia with friends I wouldn't otherwise have met.

For wrecking my body so much that I cant play any more.

And for making me want to.

I hate football alright – almost as much as I love it.

Read Keith Harrison's column first in the Weekend Shropshire Star