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Blissful Boxing Day spent hungover watching non-league football

A FAMILY has spent Boxing Day in the best way possible – watching non-league football through thumping hangovers. 

Joseph Turner organised the trip to see Burgess Hill play Lancing for the 26th in the full knowlege that he and his two adult sons would be in need of recovery.

He said: “There’s something about an Isthmian League South East Division game on a winter’s day, nobody giving a shit about the result, that really soothes the soul. And the head.

“I promise you, every one of the 400 people here, yelling desultory encouragement at players who’d rather be at home, is hanging out of their arses after an all-day session which didn’t finish until the Baileys was drained at 3am.

“If we were at home we’d be groaning, throwing up, sweating like buggery and suffering through United against Villa on Amazon. Being here puts all that aside. And I tell you what, I’ll be ready for a lager when I get in.”

Son Tom said: “Yes, I’ve got the beer shakes and I’m gripping a rail to stop myself collapsing. But Dad’s right, there’s something about their suffering that really alleviates yours. What’s a mere hangover compared to this?

“God, I hope nobody scores a goal. That would ruin it.”

How to fit in on a Boxing Day hunt

WHILE you slump on the sofa expelling the richest flatulence of the year, the aristocracy is out for a lovely traditional hunt. This is what you’d need to join in the murdery fun: 

To begin with, you’ll need a healthy contempt for your fellow man, otherwise you’ll find riding horses across their gardens in pursuit of a fox somewhat rude. Develop this by going to Sports Direct and observing their customers.

Then you’ll need to become comfortable with senseless cruelty in the name of entertainment. Reality television can help with this, especially if you have access to the late-00s series of Big Brother when ‘duty of care’ was an alien concept.

A familiarity with killing is also key, but you can’t just go out and take lives willy-nilly if you’re not already posh. Instead, pop into Pets at Home and conversationally tell the guinea pigs how you’d love to murder them. It’s fine, they’re natural born test subjects.

Next you need to get the local authority figures on your side. Invite the local police chiefs, magistrates and judges round for dinner. Feed them lavishly, get them drunk, and film them driving themselves home. After that they’ll happily look the other way as you break the law.

On the day of the hunt, it wouldn’t do to turn up in camouflage gear. A fox, after all, is not the Predator. Dress in your brightest red jacket and tight trousers that reveal how small your penis really is, and how engorged it becomes at slaughter.

Then grab your horse and off you go with your new chums. If you don’t have a horse, you are very much not invited to this party.

Above all, remember it’s a sport and you’re there to have fun. Unlike the foxes. But it’s okay, because foxes can’t feel pain and actually enjoy a bracing chase before they die.

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