My FA Cup Cat Dance

You can't mess with the FA Cup. Few events can justify sweeping up your ladyfriend's cat off the kitchen floor and holding it aloft whilst spinning around around on the spot and cheering like a 5-year-old. But the FA Cup, I think, does.

I heard a radio phone-in recently where people came on and suggested ways of recapturing the lost romance of the competition. Like drawing home teams from a pot of 'little' clubs and away teams from a pot of 'big' ones. Thus engineering more potential upsets than if you were inviting a bunch of Daily Mail reporters to Ross-Brand stand-up show. They do it that way in France, apparently.

This genetic engineering of cup ties seems all too forced to me. It's gone that way already. As soon as a draw is made the pundits are searching for upsets like a pack of Stanstead sniffer dogs around Colombian man with a bright shirt and a cigar.

Is there any such thing as an FA Cup shock now? Shocks are so sought after, revered, and studied, that the shock of last weekend was that Fulham DID make it past mighty Kettering, when everyone was screaming 'upset!'. The best upsets are those that go almost unnoticed until they happen. Villa being held up by Doncaster gets my vote.

You can't mess with the FA Cup. The less we tamper, pre-empt, and wish for, the more enthralled we'll be with its romantic splendour. I'm usually edgy when my Saturday afternoon attentions are drawn away from the beautiful game, and onto something more girl-friendly. But last Saturday's jaunt around town was an acutely frenetic affair in which I WAPed more than any respectable man should.

The compromise: on our return I listen to the final stages of the match on the radio in the kitchen just in time for Elliott Ward to step up and nonchalently nod us into the next round. Cue a fist-pump, a slide onto my knees, a high-five with my less-than-impressed ladyfriend, and the lifting of the cat like it was the very cup I was cheering for.

It's not me, darling, it's the FA Cup. It's magic.