|Th'Allianz Arena (pic courtesy of Richard Bartz)|
Occasionally though something comes along and - BLAMMO - it stops you dead.
Last night's first two nerd-offs were the usual blend of swearing and disproportionate upset, but the third was different.
It started off much as any other game, my nerd Everton were getting a bit of a chasing off someone else's nerd Bayern. They'd had much more of the ball but I was threatening and, at 0-0, it could have gone either way Brian.
Then it happened, at half time a message flashed up on my screen. It read simply: '##### wants to be your friend'.
I was stunned.
Here were two gladiators locked in to-the-nerd-death combat and yet - and yet - my foe was reaching out to me, as if to say 'when all this is over...' I took a mighly slurp from my presumptuously-opened victory beer to steady myself.
Six simple words, cast almost nonchalantly in my direction, but they represented so much more. Are we not men? (Are we Devo) - had I been so blinded by nerd blood lust all these years?
Had I lost sight of what makes online nerding great - the sense of community? The feeling of belonging, of family, of the cosmic interconnectedness of all things (nerd)?
I shook my head a little, a wry smile playing on these full, kissable lips, and gasped at life's ability to surprise. The teams were back out. The game resumed.
Second half - beat his brains out 3-0, refused the request and sent my customary 'ha ha ha!' victory message. Because that's how I roll baby. Proper.
A day of days
Up yours, Spurs and Bayern