A very Spanish hangover

Another plane flies over head.

A man is angry with a ball.

The bench I am sitting on is wet.

The match is slow.

The men are fat.

Another plane passes over.

A fence, a wall some plastic grass.

Buildings, cars, property.

An infinitely baffling amalgamation of things and concepts formed over the course of the world's long history, repeating themselves in a seemingly endless cycle finally come together and culminate in this:

Men chasing leather.

Men I know nothing about.

Who is that man leaning against the goalpost?

Its Dan.

How did Dan get here?

What's his story?

And why that goalpost?

I held back the last question when I talked to Dan after the game.

He is from London.

He speaks Slovenian.

But what was he like as a boy?

Why is his nose bleeding?

Another plane.

I have to come on.

The shirt I'm wearing is moist with another mans sweat.

He has a hairy back.

I score a goal.

Terry congratulates me.

I am being patted by the unfamiliar hands of unfamiliar men.

Another plane passes over.

I stand still.

The world moves around me.

Another plane.

Another profound afternoon.

Time to go home.

I will be back.