We can dream of being the Leicester of Euros
For the last few months, I've been repeatedly struck by a weird, discombobulating sensation. It starts in the pit of my stomach, moves up my back and finishes in a big, gormless grin on my face. I think the sensation is called optimism, although I'm not sure. After all, optimism is a fool's refuge, and there hasn't been much need for it in this country in the last few years.
But I'm pretty sure it's optimism and I'm undeniably sure about what is causing this strange, fluttery feeling - we're going to the Euros.
Optimism and football are seldom willing bedmates and, more particularly, optimism and Irish football are hardly on speaking terms.