Yes that's right, it's the obligatory world cup post. I'm sure ever blogger sitting on his or her purdy white iBook is currently waxing poetic about "the world game" and that I am only adding more salt to the wound, but god damnit at this point I'm far too drunk on Fosters and Aussie spirit to care. For tonight, Australia, are through to the top 16.
The World Cup does funny things to people. A notoriously slow and often scoreless game that "is mainly played by wogs and foreigners", is suddenly the most enthralling, exciting, uplifting game ever devised by a man. For three odd weeks every four years, it is captivating beyond explanation. Even the birds like it. (that's English for "women" btw). You can hear them sprouting off match statistics and player profile information with the same gusto they normally reserve for who they really hate or don't really hate that much but still basically hate overall in the Big Brother household. I can't tell if it's treachery or a turn on.
But it's not just the ladies. Oh no. Everyone is suddenly an authority on the subject. Everywhere you go, complete strangers seem to know exactly what is best for England's chances, who should be coaching what, with whom, and with what blunt instrument up where. And I'm no exception. The six or seven odd years I spent playing centre half for Beacon Hill back in the 80s (ahem, Under 7 Pumas undefeated thank you very much) seems to give me enough credibilty to decide who really is offside and who should be given a bloody red card I mean come on why don't you ask him out to a movie first get your bloody hands off him you [insert derogatory pseudo racist generalisation here]. There seems to be a PC cease fire during the World Cup. Suddenly everyone's accents become that little bit broader, clothes become a tad more uniform-esque, and you can pretty much say whatever you want to whoever you want as long as the referee doesn't blow the full time whistle.
Whether it's patriotic or idiotic is bye the bye. You can put a million stupid flags on your car or you can say things like "mate who cares, it's only a game". The one thing you can't deny, when you're chewing your own fingernails, sweating sitting down, and shouting at the television screen, is that you actually care about where you are from. The litmus test has come back green and gold, and right now my name is clearly at the top.
That is of course until we play Italy, which by then my ego will swiftly turn to the slightly more realistic prospects provided by the boys from Blighty. England England England, oi oi oi!
