If I were to say that for the first time in my whole sodding life I actually found myself genuinely looking forward to a play of football, that I was, in all reality, actually nervous about what would unfurl in front of my sweating face, you’d think me mad, surely?
I’ve never been one to harp on about what some call ‘the beautiful game’ because I find it largely repulsive; this has a lot to do with players’ salaries and the way some of these young cunts carry-on off the pitch, but more pertinently, I find the actual game dull, boring, I’d rather be doing needlepoint, penis needlepoint, and I don’t even know what that is. It also has some connections to them what liked football at the miserable comprehensive I used to attend, ‘football,’ as far as I was concerned, was a byword for racist homophobe fists, but that’s another issue entirely.
I’d woken on Sunday with a fairly substantial hangover. The previous evening IC and I had been to a mates barbeque on a rood terrace with about 50 other guests. The excuse for the gathering was to celebrate Swedish Midsummer, an event in that neck of the woods requiring specific dishes and drinks –the latter more akin to drag strip fuel. I ate tons of well-cooked meat, Swedish meatballs, cake, pie and drank everything that was shoved into my hand. It was gloriously hot and I slowly drifted about the place making myself known to those about me, arseholed.
When we arrived home at 12-ish, IC, who wasn’t feeling at all well on account of a persistent cold-thing, took herself off to bed. I on the other hand stayed up for a mammoth session of death metal and what have you. I was beyond repair by 5am, which was the last time I saw the clock until I woke at midday.
I watched the Grand Prix that was considerably more satisfying than the football that followed, and after that fiasco (why can’t English payers turn and kick the fucking ball? By the way) Mary popped down to hang out with us for a while. We watched a boring movie and ate teatime fare as Sunday ground to a halt heralding the horrific spectre of Monday that haunts me as I type this balls.
It was a superb weekend but overshadowed by what had happened on Thursday, this is overshadowing proceedings now if I’m blunt. I took Friday off to try and re-focus but I’m not sure how to play it even now, there are alternative options of course, forgive me if I’m not in anyway inclined to discuss them here, doubtless you’ll find out if you still around.
In the evening I met IC at her office and we took the train to my sisters gaff in Woking. The evening served as a good antidote to the contemporary flat concerns, we sat in the garden all night having a right old laugh so we did, we ate Indian takeaway and drank wine. It was a perfectly balmy summer evening, not a breath of a breeze and warm enough to sustain no more than a tee shirt until we turned in at midnight. It was good to wake Saturday morning without too much head-pain, after we took the train back to town IC and I went to Mary’s salon for a haircut at 10am, it was already extremely warm and losing a pile of hair off my barnet before the burning heat of midday was timing perfection.
Round this time we arrived at Broadway Market to forage for food. It’s a tough call this, in addition to the place being packed full of those awful posh-student types with their sockless boating shoes and beards, the food on offer is, if one isn’t careful, a case of mutton dressed as lamb and it’s nearly all completely over-priced. But I quite like it, if nothing else it’s a good reminder it’s Saturday. IC, still not feeling so good, was unable to decide what she wanted, in the end I opted for an overpriced pastrami and Swiss cheese sandwich, despite being rather petite it was fucking nice, which I ate in London Fields next to IC who was coughing her toenails up.
In the afternoon I managed a session at the gym, then caught up with the Moto GP, there is no doubt that this is the best sport on the television and I was pleased to see Casey Stoner come in at a respectable third. Before the barbeque I read the paper and got enraged at the perpetual references to fucking Glastonbury.
I don’t give a gypsies kiss how a small proportion of the nation are spending their weekends, for some reason this bloody festival is, year in, year out, rammed down my neck. Its just poshos gathering in a bloody field drinking watered down warm beer with dreadful music that you can’t hear. If I cared I’d go. Actually, even when I have gone I didn’t care. Bollocks to Eavis.
The one upshot to England being booted (did you see what I did there?) out is the diminishing quantity of those bloody car flags. Only the odd white van or scaffold-bearing lorry still bears the shock of this nations humiliating exit from the World Cup. At least I will be wise enough in future to not get involved in the bloody thing… but I still find myself livid at the way the English team played, I mean for fucks sake, why didn’t they RUN?!