Every Saturday it’s the same. The same mix of hope and trepidation. The buzz that comes with daring to dream. The memory of so many nightmares. This is where my week begins and ends, where precious emotions are unwrapped and fed to the fickle fate of a football match. By around 5 o’clock in the afternoon, the issue is usually resolved.

A victory, particularly a resounding one away from home, sends me sky high. Life takes on a warm and rosy glow. I am talkative, friendly and optimistic. A heavy home defeat, however, triggers a free-fall into the abyss; into a bleak and hostile world infused with Orwellian gloom.

Nothing else has such a powerful hold on me. I could be anywhere in the world, but if I know that my beloved team is playing (and I always do) then I must know the result. And nothing can shift my mood with such unremitting certainty. An idyllic beach holiday in the Seychelles, for instance, would be ruined by news of a woeful performance and three more points squandered. Football rules my life. It’s an addiction. And I share it with millions of others.

For multitudes of avid fans, football is a culture, a philosophy and a creed that gives purpose to their lives. It's a place where, for a brief period on a Saturday afternoon, strangers joined by nothing more than the love of their local team can meet to share a collective experience.

It's about fulfilling those most basic of human needs – identity and belonging. Where else can you meet with 50,000 other people to sing, laugh and hurl good-natured abuse at the opposition? In these sterile, modern times of rules and regulations, football feels like the last sanctuary of rebellion. No wonder it’s so popular. Football is pure catharsis.

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