Is your Granny Irish?

"My neighbours aren't speaking to me."

"This isn't a work problem."

"Not strictly speaking, no. But it's work-related. "

"How so?"

"They say I kept them up all night wailing 'Love Is A Losing Game' by Amy Winehouse."

"Did you?"

"I don't know. It sounds familiar."

"That must have been traumatic for them."

"They called it 'haunting'."

"You said this was work-related..."

"It is. Last night was when I decided to finally put together our all-Irish Premier League fantasy football team."

"Oh. How...how bad is it?"

"It's bad. I remember everything until I picked Sunderland's Adam Mitchell as one of the three attackers."

"Surely there were others?"

"I actually only found two Irish strikers." 

"So who's your third attacker?"

"Ricky van Wolfswinkel."

"You just like him because of his n..."

"He gets on base!"

"Fine. But I still don't see how this affects your work life." 

"I have no internet." 

"What? Why not?"

"My neighbours changed their password."

"Wait, you use their internet?"

"Have you seen what you guys pay me?"

"We don't." 

"Well, there you go." 

"How did you get them to agree to that?"

"I told them I'd cut them in on my herb business." 

"You sell drugs?"

"It's not like that, I've just got a lot of extra thyme on my hands."

"So get a hobby, you monster!"

My meeting with HR had gone nowhere. What's more, it had eaten into my deadline. I needed to finish writing this week's fantasy football column but I kept seeking out further distractions. I just couldn't bring myself to log back in. The flashbacks. All morning. The flashbacks and the void. 

Steven Reid. He earned 19 points last season. I HAD to pick him. There was nothing I could do. It's not my fault. It's not. 

Had I really picked Glenn Whelan? Had the whole squad really only cost £79 million? Had I really gone to a printer's and had them make a giant novelty cheque so that I could donate the remaining £21 million to charity? 

"And now the final frame..."

It's only the second week. I can't be losing it already. Didn't I have a bottle of gin hidden in this desk? 

"Love is a losing game."

But no. I still have my own team. Full of players I wanted. Players I didn't HAVE to choose. I could just focus on them. I don't need to write about The Others. 

I entered my log-in details and filled my lungs as the My Team screen loaded. But it was okay. It was all going to be okay. There were my players. The ones I wanted. None of them Irish. Well, except for Wes - but he hardly counts. There was Ricky. 

And not just Ricky. Coutinho too. And Santi Cazorla. And Yaya Toure. And David Silva. 

A midfield with more potential for points than Albert Einstein doing the Leaving Cert behind the wheel of a speeding car. It was okay. It was all going to be okay. 

Sure, there were some risks there too. There had to be in order to allow for such quality in the middle. But they're good risks. Worthwhile risks. And so hardly risks at all. 

Caulker, gone to Cardiff from Spurs. He's a player. And they'll be solid, especially at home. Lukaku. He might not get the game time. But Chelsea have got two games (against Hull and Aston Villa) in Gameweek One. Worthwhile risks. And so hardly risks at all. 

Or are they?

Maybe my will to win overtook my journalistic integrity. Maybe I realised that you lovely readers are my competition. Maybe I decided to sabotage your teams from the outset through this very column. 

Or maybe I found the gin.