Here we go, here we go, here we go. World Cup fever officially starts tomorrow and there’s cheap white car flags, Adrian Chiles and bad haircuts everywhere. Yesterday, I saw a small child with the word ‘Gerrard’ shaved into the back of his head. Oh dear, oh dear.
I’m not a fan of football. It’s a bit woosy for me. It’s all the excessive buffing, the chest waxing, the hair products, the mano-a-mano contact at every given opportunity, the tears, the faking, the communal baths, the socks. It’s not attractive to us girls.
And it’s a mug’s game being a supporter. Let’s face it, poor old England don’t stand a chance of winning and yet we’re marching over the trenches, walking blindly into a summer of collective mass depression and damaged self esteem. Tragic really.
Nelson Mandela can croak on all he likes about the beautiful game bringing together nations, but we all know it’s personal. It’s going to be like Eurovision all over again where we lost – spectacularly – because everyone in Europe hates us. Why wouldn’t they? We’ve been turning our nose up at their party now for years. They couldn’t wait for a chance to snub us publicly.
And the same goes for the Americans. With BP pumping out the horrific oil slick onto America’s prime coastline, we’re literally dumping on their doorstep. Do you really think we’ll have a hope in hell of winning on Saturday against a side so pissed off?
And it’ll be oh-so-easy for them. All the yanks have to do is wind up Rooney a little bit and he’ll be off. The Anglo Saxon within will rear up and he’ll be hoisted by his own petard.
Oh yes, Fifa’s list of banned expletives is a genius move to thwart us, especially since we invented swearing. Everyone knows that kicking a ball and bad-mouthing are hot-wired together into the very DNA of every footballer in the land. I’d love to know the total on Capello’s swear box by now. You could probably buy a small island with it.
But twenty words, eh? I’m intrigued. I’m an accomplished swearer, but I’m struggling with twenty. Imagine the meeting of the officials to decide on the definitive list? These are grown men. It’s got to be the silliest meeting in history.
But the secret list has been issued. So clearly there’s the F word and the D word – multiply by two when you add Head to them both. So that’s four. Then there’s obviously the C word and the Mother one. They’re up there, right? Then there’s S H one T and the one that rhymes with Banker.
But what else? Pillock? Wassock? Twonk?
You’ve got to wonder.
Roll on Wimbledon. Bring on the hairy chests and racket throwing.