Kick-off is close. The fanatic takes his bucket seat among his brethren and raises a roar from the craw. Or he tunes the radio to "full match commentary," fingers tingling. Perhaps he is in the pub, standing beneath the big screen, gulping at a pint to ease a lumpy, anxious swallow. The rest, obsessed, will follow the action online. These are the rituals of football supporters. Those who, every Saturday (or Sunday), will sweat and shout and scream and sing. And after 90 minutes, plus added time, they will either celebrate or sulk. If it’s a really big game, some may even shed a tear. Regardless of a win, loss or draw, they will swear that in the cacophony of the contest, their team, that result or that referee’s decision is the most important thing in their life. It isn’t, of course. They will go back to work on Monday...finish off that report for the boss...earn a crust...get the mortgage paid. Only during downtime at the water cooler will thoughts turn back...