I love football. I have a weird, tense relationship with it. But when I was 12 it was what I lived for.

I was a half-back: not the most talented, but I ran my arse off and, when I lost the ball, I would always go back and get it. The dream was a place in my boarding school's first team – but they were almost all 13 and it seemed a long way off. I remember on selection day I phoned my dad from a call box on the way down to training and told him: "Dad, I'm not going to make it."

When I got there, everyone picked for the first team was put in green shirts for a practice match. I was in white. But I noticed there was still one spot left on the green team: they only had 10 men. Then I overheard their centre-forward and inside-right saying they were going to play a one-two straight from the kick-off. So all I've got to do is cut it off … and, oh, it's at my feet! And I took it, and I took it, and I went on a nice run. The teacher blew and said: "OK, Izzard, change your shirt." Still gets me, just thinking about that moment.

Look at the team shot: some of the other kids were huge. Smedley, the goalkeeper, was over six feet at 13! So it was quite an honour to be playing with them at 12.

Before a Wednesday game they would read out the team in front of the whole school. "Isherwood – captain, Vincent, Askeroff, De Bruin, Izzard, Stephens, Gearing …" All these names – still remember them. "Everyone in the team, stand up, go and get your kit and meet by the minibus." And we'd stand up in front of the whole school – a God-like moment. I never had that feeling again until standup.

But then I went to a boarding school in Eastbourne that didn't bloody play football. It was rugby, cricket and field hockey. I mean, what the fuck is field hockey? So playing football was removed from my life.

They couldn't stop me watching it though and, as a teenager, I got into supporting Crystal Palace. My Aunty Bea and Uncle John lived at 167 Whitehorse Lane, right next to Palace's stadium, and, in 1969, John started taking us to matches, when Palace had just gone up to the First Division for the first time. We could go to the match and be back in time for the final scores on TV.

The 70s were special. Malcolm Allison, wearing his fedora, took us down to the Third Division, but in 1975‑76 we had a great FA Cup run, almost getting to the final. I went nuts. Kenny Sansom was the type of player I wanted to be. And we had Don Rogers! Outside-left in the early Seventies. "Give it to Don!" He'd just go off on runs on his own and we'd be like, "G'waaan Don!" We'd go insane.

But when Terry Venables's "Team of the Eighties" came crashing down, I began to back away from it all. I just couldn't take Palace not winning, England not winning and my career not winning. It wasn't that I lost interest: it was all too much at once. So I focused on my work – edged away from Palace and from football.

It took me years to come back to it. I was in America in 2008 and enjoying some success when I met a fantastic female footballer. As a teenager, she could do four- or five-thousand keepy-uppys, and she offered to give me some football training. I thought this is so weird, this is actually right. So I bought a ball – a gold one with USA stamps on it was all I could find – and it all came back to me in a rush. She comes on my tours to coach me now.

For me, football is some sort of magical place. And it can save the world I feel, because it gives dignity. They talk about "dignity deficit" in the Arabic countries – a guy set fire to himself because he felt he had a life but he didn't have dignity. In football, everyone has a chance. You never know who's going to win. Great teams have fallen. The African teams could be the teams of the future. There's the giant-killing runs. Remember Hereford way back when – Ronnie Radford scoring that unbelievable goal. I had a flickbook of that.

Football gives people a chance to dream. I ended up giving that gold ball away to a kid in America. I do that a lot now – just go to places with a lot of footballs and pumps and give them away. It opens up a world of imagination and self-belief.

When I met Paul Trevillion to discuss the You Are The Ref strip, he passed on something Pelé told him: "Even my bad games are good." That is the trick for professional standups too – to have the belief that our worst work is OK, and to know that, on the days when you're on it, zinging, it will all flow naturally. 

But I don't see any comedy in football. It's all life and death. I'm still nine years old when I watch. There's no comedy, unless the other team kick it in their own net – but even then, I feel for them a little bit, unless it's a top-five team.

When Palace made me associate director of the club in 2012 – a great honour – I did say that all I wished for was for the club to win every match from here to eternity. And I stand by that statement. That's all every fan wants – you just want your team to win every single match.

Yesterday didn't go well, but under Mr Pulis, we might yet have turned a corner. It would be great if Palace became a fighting team that you could never write off and got established in the Premier League.

But even if we go down again, I don't really mind. The new owners, I like the cut of their jib, because they give a damn. They're going for the long term, so that's why I'm happy to be back with Palace. And I'd been away for a few decades, in my head.

Eddie Izzard Force Majeure is out now on Blu-ray and DVD. For a chance to win a signed copy, and see Eddie star in the You are the Ref Christmas special, click here.