It’s Here! The World Bloody Cup
I will hastily cut to the chase and admit to loving the World Cup in a way that’s probably seen as overzealous by a majority of Planet Earth’s inhabitants.
For the next four weeks, a bevy of emotions will dominate my life. When I’m not crying or eating sausages, I’ll be running down the street naked celebrating England’s wild achievement of securing a hard fought 0-0 draw against some footballing superpower like Costa Rica.
The comical antics don’t end there. Oh no. When I rush home from work to watch a trio of back-to-back ninety-minute festivals of soccer, I’ll be almighty relieved that I’m no longer required to witness the mind numbing sports that have recently embellished my dusty television set. Garden hockey, French boules and water aerobics have all got recent outings.
Before I decided to start running a bath and reenacting the moves that I had learned on ‘Water Aerobics Oz Style’, I knew deep down there was a shining light at the end of the tunnel.
The World bloody Cup.
It’s here! Oh yes. Scrape the dust off the Lazyboy recliner, power up the portable mini fridge and stock it to the effin’ brim with a selection of moderately priced cervezas. The best one month stretch in four years has elegantly arrived.
However, I haven’t always perceived it to be so great. In the aftermath of England pathetically limping out of each tournament, I try to convince myself that the World Cup is a load of tosh as I bawl my eyes out into a damp St George’s flag. Luckily for the governing body, FIFA, time is a beautiful and underrated healer. The memories of crashing out to ‘zee Germans’ in South Africa 2010 are long gone.
Now, as I sit and frantically type, the pride and belief has reemerged. England CAN (but probably won’t, because they are awful) win the big lump of gold.
And that’s why the World Cup is such a beautiful commodity. Every time it’s the same. Yet like a blind, dastardly fool, you crawl back on your hands and knees and beg for more as you wear a brand spanking new England jersey with your predicted saviour’s name plastered on the back.
Quite simply, it’s the hope that kills you. Oh, and the 250 pints of beer you sling down ya gullet.
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