This weekend the final whistle blew on Euro 2012.
A team lifted a trophy, hands were shook and confetti cannons went off.
Grown men cried.
Leaving a lot of the nation wondering how they used to spend their evenings. And how to get face-paint off.
Don’t get me wrong I like football. Most of the time.
I like it more in the flesh and on a local level. Where you can hear the players shout and the referee can knows when you think he is a plonker.
I’d rather go see Bognor Rocks than a premiership game.
But stuck on the sofa I do find it hard work.
Either my heart is pounding, my hands are clammy and I’m holding onto a pillow or person for dear life.
Or, I am doing battle to keep my eyelids open.
Sadly this tournament has been more of the latter.
Despite good draws and plenty of promise.
The rumble of commentary as it is passed backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards is like a lullaby.
By half-time at least one eye is “resting” to the point I often find my family watching me in amusement rather than the game.
“I’m still here” I protested, determined to make it to full time.