The World Cup is like vanilla sex…

13 06 2010

……hours of build-up leading to a minute or two of pure elation but soured by 90 minutes of awkward fumbling and foreplay that goes no-where leading to an amateurish slipping in towards the end.

At least these fellows are enjoying themselves.....

To avoid having my citizenship revoked by a council of bald headed, stella guzzling thugs I watched Enger-land’s first match in the world cup last night. Adrian Childes on ITV promised us viewers he would be with us all the way through the highs and lows of the match. He’d  sat in our rooms with us, drinking our beer and then learing over on the couch, the sweet stench of alcohol wheezing out of his chubby face, eyes alight with the flames of desire and crisp soiled hands moving up our legs while we were distracted by the prima donnas prancing around on the pitch.

I, for one am not entirely comfortable with Childes’ over familiarity. A likeable enough chap I’m sure but I just don’t feel comfortable with him oozing around my flat as I watch the game, I don’t trust him enough not to try something like a dirty uncle. I could have gone to a pub and enjoyed the embrace of booze swilling nationalism but the prospect of putting up with their nerdy opinions on a sport which isn’t the most mentally challenging in the world or listening to their vaguely racist babble in this war-by-proxy didn’t feel me with joy.

Instead I took a very 21st century approach to viewing the match, watching it online and enjoying the twitter reactions as it bumbled on. I could see the screen at all times, was surrounded by people whose opinions I do enjoy, could get eat curry in just my dressing gown and unlike people in London watching the match on their HD TVs I actually saw the goal rather than a car advert. I like to think I won that one.


So the match then. I can’t deny the buildup isn’t exciting and it casts my memory back to previous world cup experiences. Maradonna’s hand ball in ’86, the moment I realised as a young child that the world isn’t fair. All the drama and theatrics of ’90, when the proles suddenly professed a love for opera (well one tune anyway) and our boys accompanied that with a bit of melodrama in the semi-finals when drunben prank monkey Paul Gascoigne burst into tears along with millions of grown men.  In ’94 the World Cup was replaced by the Superbowl and no-one cared. In ’98 I remember a nimble little Micheal Owen dancing around Columbian’s while I watched the match with 100,000 in the cold and wet at Glastonbury.

It’s cherished memories like these I watch the World Cup for. As if it were a narcotic I want to sample the dizzying highs of a group experience shared en mass, all eyes looking up as one cheering on a sole individual who represents the nations hopes and dreams of a spherical object being tapped into a net. I’d rather that kind of energy were channelled into making Britain a better, fairer place for one and all but then that sounds like a lot more work than getting drunk in a pub and shouting at a TV screen.

But with this particular high you forget how much of the time you are spent looking at the clock, or pretending this is all very fun and interesting when inside you know it’s just not working. To be honest, last night I found what Charlie Brooker was saying about the match more interesting than the match itself. Neither team showed any of the flair or style that my addled memory recalls of previous matches in the golden tinted past. I felt like one of those moments when a drug you used to go crazy for just seemed more hassle than it was worth, or when a sexual experience you’ve looked forward to for ages turns out to be a disappointment and then you’re left there. out in the cold with your flaccid wang in your hands trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

But then to be fair it would be difficult keeping your mind on the game with all those demonic vuvuzela’s honking down on you, a deflating atonal chorus of fucktards standing round you while you try and score one for the boys….



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