Football Down The Pub

I have been looking at the computer screen trying to think of something to
write about that doesn’t include South Africa or football. Well I cant!
Mainly because, like a good number of other middle aged men, I have become
nine years old again.

I have kept the World Cup planner from the newspaper. I have bought an
England flag, an England air freshener, and a red and white hat.

I even spent a whole evening putting the fixtures into the calendar on my
iPhone even though I had previously bought an app (phone programme)
containing the full details.

To many of you, including Mrs M, this will all sound a little sad. In fact
my wife is under the impression that I might have World Cup Tourettes
because every now and then I get the urge to shout ‘Come on England’.

I know that I am not alone in this; every where I go I see grown men
gazing at newspapers and magazines containing details of the happenings
taking place on the African continent.

I spoke to an old school friend today and within seconds our conversation
became focussed on this, our favourite subject. My old pal is a Manchester
City fan whilst I support the team in red. This did not matter, however, as
we became joined as fellow supporters of our national team.

I mentioned Mrs M’s view that I might have World Cup Tourettes and he
chuckled as he told me about his need to sing the England football song
Three Lions at the top of his voice whilst alone in his car.

My wife said this confirmed her theory that the only difference between
men and cheese is that eventually the latter matures. I detected a little
too much sarcasm than I thought was necessary.

I enquired as to whether she was in any way excited about the competition.
‘A little she replied’ doing a mock Mexican wave as she sat on the sofa.

No matter, I continued with my pre-tournament preparations which included
ensuring that every TV in the house had good reception just in case we get
a failure, and fitting the flag to my otherwise unpatriotic car.

Mrs M, in a bid to manage my expectations, suggested that I book in for
some therapy should they not make it past the first round.

‘Therapy?’ I replied ‘I will form a whole support group should that
happen’.

‘And where would you hold these sessions’ enquired my bride.

‘Down the pub’ I replied.

My wife did a second mock Mexican wave and I am sure I heard her say ‘Come
on England’ as she left the room.

World Cup Tourettes must be catching.


- Posted from my iPhone

Britain's Traditional Instrument

My World Cup tourettes has fast disappeared and been replaced by a self-help mantra.

I had spent the last few weeks randomly shouting 'come on England' at the sight of a St George's flag but now the nine year-old boy inside this middle-aged man has grown quiet and ever so slightly melancolic.

I have replaced my football chant with the one my wife regularly used in the lead up to the competition. Trying to convey that she didn't know what all the fuss was about she would offer 'it's only game'.

Before England's demise I would take the time to explain why she was mistaken in her view. Now it seems to offer only the slightest amount of comfort.

Mrs M, in an attempt at soothing my disappointment, removed all the England flags from the car whilst I was otherwise distracted.

It was a caring thing to do but the car, once proud, patriotic, and positive, now looked sad and ordinary.

It seems we were not alone in wanting to remove any reminders of our defeat. The streets around our home, which were once a proud mass of red and white, are all now as plain as my old car.

We have just started a few days away at a holiday camp in Norfolk and I am hopeful that this will restore my otherwise positive attitude.

On arrival I became quickly aware that there were no St George's flags to be seen. I presume that the the holiday camp managers followed my wife's lead in hiding anything that might disappoint.

My hope now is that I might meet some French or Italian supporters: I will feel it is my duty to encourage them by offering the reminder that 'it's only a game'. We are fellow Europeans.

If I come across some Germans (not sure of it counts as Europe) I will feel the need to be magnanamous in defeat. Even if Lampard's goal had been allowed we still looked second rate compared with their skill.

For now I will pick up my vuvuzela and shout 'Come on Ghana!'

The instrument, that made every game sound like it was being played inside a hornets nest, was allowed because it is said to be a traditional instrument.

If we ever host the World Cup in this great nation we should employ our traditional
instruments and turn up at the stadium with a pair of spoons or a paper and comb. That would show 'em!

And if they complained about the noise we could remind them that 'it's only a game'.

England - Glee or Porgy & Bess

Mrs M seems to be having withdrawal symptoms from the remote control. This object, once so regularly used to flick between various episodes of Next Top Model, has hardly left my side during the World Cup.

Realising her pain at such a loss I suggested she chose something good for us to watch whilst a less important match was on last night.

To my horror her remote controlling finger stopped pressing when we arrived at the latest American import known as Glee.

I had seen the odd trailer for the show so knew that it might be the type that I wouldn't fully appreciate. Nothing, however, could have prepared my for what I was about to witness.

For those who haven't seen it let me explain. It is set in a stateside high school and uses all the usual reference points to carry the story. Their are jocks and geeks and other groupings of American teens showing an unhealthy amount of disrespect for one another.

This series has a twist, however, in that it takes one such group and draws them together around their passion for performing arts, making them more Gleeks than Geeks.

This is where the show takes a turn for the worse as we are subjected to cheesy song after cheesy song set in a storyline that adds further helpings of savoury dairy products.

For this middle aged nothern male it represented sheer pain.

When I was at school the only musical we came near to performing was Porgy and Bess. That was because we had a substitute drama teacher for one term. She was full of enthusiasm and convinced that the boys in the class should experience the joy of singing in front of other people.

In truth, most of us were secretly drawn to the idea but we had to maintain our usual air of disdain for fear of being ridiculled.

Cast in the lead roll I was required to sing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' using my best deep south accent.

I didn't have such an accent and the teacher kept asking me to make it sound less like a football chant.

The following term our substitute teacher had disappeared along with my embarrasment at having to sing in front of the class.

Perhaps this is why I revile at the sight of these over enthusiastic American teenagers turning every mundane incident into a song.

I mentioned to Mrs M, in passing, that I preferred the football and she sang, with full musical actions, the main song from Glee as she went to make a brew.

'Don't stop believing'

'You might need that song when you watch the England match tomorrow' she said with a smile.

As long as I don't end up singing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' I replied hoping that my footballing dreams won't be shattered.