I’VE JUST completed my longest consecutive run of West Brom matches I’ve neither watched nor cared about. Having lost at Arsenal, the pitifully small flame of hope faded mercifully to black. We were relegated. For the remaining matches of the season, I made myself a stranger to those I loved. This is a massive thing for me, a shaming display of disloyalty. I’m sorry, I couldn’t stand it any more. Having said that, I’ve just checked how many games it is now that I’ve not been caring. Tellingly, it’s only three. It’s felt like an age. I’m afraid I’m not cured. Season’s start will be upon us again soon and the first tentacles of hope are beginning to grasp my insides.

There is no escape from the physical and emotional hold; not now, not ever, and technology is going to make it harder to escape. I know this because I’ve interviewed some people looking at the future of sport through the prism of climate change and the effect it will have on the games we play and watch. Interestingly, the most significant environmental impact related to sport is that perpetrated by fans. It turns out all that worthy stuff I’ve been so proud of doing – travelling to home and away matches – has not only often made me miserable, but it’s also harmed the planet. It turns out my fellow fans and I, with all our yelling and screaming, are like the globe’s flatulent cows, parping toxic gases to the detriment of us all. An unworthy thought strikes me: perhaps this is the perfect excuse I can give myself for not attending games any more – it’s for environmental reasons. But this won’t wash, with me or anyone else.