Its only just occurred to me that in the song Three Lions, when they sing ‘its coming home, its coming home, its coming’ it sounds more like they are wishing England to lose. I mean really, if anything, they want football to stay over there, so that it can keep playing. No? Its a stupid silly song. I am hacking this up quickly because despite my entire lack of knowledge or any real care for the game, I’m going to watch the England match today, and I’m looking forward to it. I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve started to care a bit. It may have been after Wednesday when I realised that there was a point in willing on a team that previously were less a team and more a group of shuffling twats on a field. If not, then it could also possibly have been in the last few days where I really enjoyed the Uruguay vs South Korea match, or last night’s Ghana vs US match. I’m not sure why I enjoyed them. I couldn’t really tell you which bit was my favourite or who did what when. All I know is, some blokes kicked some balls and ran a bit and it seemed pretty entertaining. Today I will be similarly useless in terms of knowledge, but I fully intend to comment on things in the most pathetic way possible and get into it the best way I can. I will be heard to say such things as ‘ooh look, he kicked a ball’ and ‘ well done that one for running a bit’ with as much gusto as a vicar at a spring fete. Many will look at me as though I have taken the entire platform of football and put a flowery dress on it, but let me tell you, hooliganism wouldn’t exist if we could all just sit back and comment on just how lovely the camaraderie is and doesn’t that grass look green?
I would have spent ages writing this earlier, but the wifi on the train home did not work. This followed being in a Starbucks this morning where the coffee machines did not work, and the pairing of the two made me start to wonder if this is indeed the ‘Broken Britain’ I keep hearing about. The Starbucks moment was ridiculous. All I wanted was a coffee, they claim to sell, nay specialise in coffee. Yet the one thing they could not provide was bloody coffee. I would suggest that when such things happen, you just close. I admire their keen enthusiasm at staying open just to turn every person away that wants coffee, but frankly I’d have stuck a sign on the door and taken it as a signal to stay in bed. Instead they were cheery as usual, not turning around till I had been at the counter for at least three minutes, and then bringing my tea (yeah always ducking and diving me. No coffee? I’m not phased. Sheeeayyyyaaah) to me and complaining that they thought I was sitting somewhere else. It was empty, I clearly wasn’t. Suddenly my choice of seating is an irritant.
Still this was nothing compared to the wifi problem. It was a panicked moment in carriage E when such things were announced as suddenly everyone on the train with a laptop stopped feverishly clicking, and all the hope that boredom could be staved with facebook was replaced with the fear of maybe having to engage in actual conversation. Many of them, including me, hadn’t prepared for such things and so had no back up of a book or other boredom neutralising material and so there wasn’t much else to do for the next tedious three hours. Ever the McGuyver of social etiquette, I took what awake bit of brain I had and started talking to the woman next to me. She appeared friendly and I assumed we could have some decent banter, learning nothing from my encounter on Thursday. Chat lasted about 3 minutes. She told me she was a teacher, and taught science, didn’t at any point bounce any questions back at me and kept just looking out of the window, maybe hoping to spot some wifi flying in to save her from my chat fail. I persevered, fearing my own boredom. She would talk to me rather than let me face three hours of Dullsville. She was going for a job interview in Surrey, I commented on how cool the experiment with magnesium is. She commentated on how good I was at remembering that one. I realised she sounded hugely patronising. I started staring out of the window praying for the wifi wizard (wifizard) to save me. Dullsville arrived. It was a long boring place, and both of us, intermittently looked at each other hoping for an in for chat, but rejection brewed constantly. I wasn’t going to back down. So I put my headphones in and really ignored her. She read the same newspaper four times. At the end of the journey, I leaned over and wished her all the best for the interview. I hoped she would both see this as: a) me being nice and b) a sharp dig when she realised she could say nothing back as she hadn’t asked me anything. SLAM! She’ll be regretting that for many many years to come. Don’t mess up chit chat time with the T-Dogg. Boom.
Right. Must go watch some delightful chaps have a kick around against the Gerries. Toodle-pip.
