Virtually Addicted

As Christmas Day dawned bright and early, I unwrapped possibly the most evil yet brilliant creation known to man. 'Don't get addicted', my Mum said knowingly. 'Make sure it doesn't mess up your hopes of university', my Dad warned. I smiled, confident in my own self-restraint, sure that I wouldn't let my addiction get out of hand and wreck my entire life. But what could it be, glowing in my hands like a shiny beacon from Hell? Drugs? A keg of lager? No, something much, much worse. Football Manager 2010!

Sega's monstrous creation has been ruining the lives of blokes and their girlfriends since 1992, and this year, I was foolish/clever enough to bag myself a copy, with a little help from Father Christmas. Since then, I have done little else. The spookiest thing about the game is that one can settle down in front of the computer at 9pm, turn round to look at the clock, and discover it's 2 o'clock in the morning! Such is the addictive nature of the game, that I have developed 'Football Manager eyes'. This horrendous injury ranks alongside 'athlete's foot' and 'tennis elbow'- it consists of bags under the eyes, and severely dilated pupils surrounded by a bloodshot outer eye. I went to my optician's for some assistance, but decided to come back another day after seeing the queue of men aged between 8 and 55, with all the same problem. That, and a sore head where said bloke has neglected his wife in favour of Andrey Arshavin!

My delight at Birmingham City's incredible 13 match unbeaten run has been totally eclipsed by my despair at Birmingham City's incredible 13 match winless run on the game, under the stewardship of yours truly. I've actually become angry at my own fans after they told me that 'I was unfit to manage the club', and the sinking feeling I received when I got the sack took days to shift. I felt guilty for ruining the club in such a spectacular way, and for all that Gary Megson has been through recently, I bet he cannot say that he was sacked at 2.30 in the morning wearing his dressing gown with a cat on his lap.

My addiction to the game has helped me appreciate the troubles that managers go through, however. I shook aside my feeling of dislike for Stoke City to take the virtual reigns at the virtual Britannia Stadium. (I should perhaps add, for simplicity's sake, that everything is virtual in the game). Players are given a score out of 20 for every skill a professional footballer needs. For example, Rory Delap's long throw attribute is 20; Dimitar Berbatov's effort rating is 1. And that is generous for the big Bulgarian. Back at Stoke, I faced a dilemma that only myself and Tony Pulis will appreciate: do I play Delap, who, long throws apart, is useless? Or do I drop Delap and the long throw gameplan in favour of Liam Lawrence, who has been impressing in pre-season? I was so torn by the dilemma I held a backroom staff meeting, consisting of a cat, a coin to toss, and two pencils (one representing Lawrence, the other Delap). Needless to say, I was none the wiser, so I sacked my cat as the assistant manager, and brought in Peter Reid. In hindsight, the cat would have done a better job...

Basically, in the last two weeks or so, my life has been put on hold. Sega has a lot to answer for, and if I fail my exams, I'm suing whoever invented the blasted game. And to think, on Christmas Day morning, I waved away suggestions of ruining my life with wide eyed naivety and optimism... The folly of youth, eh?