As millions of other people in this sick, sad world of ours, I follow in the footsteps of Winston Churchill. Am I a charismatic leader who overcame the Nazis and a lisp? Am I a defiant showstopper with a knack for draining “native” rebellions of their energy and whiskey bottles of their contents? No, no, no. I’m only depressed.Watching the Premier League is not exactly an orthodox way of treating a bout of depression. I can’t, however, afford a counselor. Pills are known for their tendency to cause lethargy. Star of BBC’s resurrected and resplendent “Doctor Who” series, David Tennant, refuses to make house-calls. And so, I am forced to self-medicate.

One of the more obvious ways in which the Premiership can inspire one to crawl out of bed in the morning and do the things that the spoiled brats with normally-wired brains do, is the sense of belonging it inspires. When you are depressed, you do not want to feel alone (alone with mounds of chocolate, alone with sharp objects, etc.). And as the dark universe stretches out in infinite directions all around you, it’s a comfort to know that there are, out there, small pockets of warmth: pubs full of like-minded individuals spilling beer down the front of their shirts and yelling rude things at the television. Read More »