Till Football do us part

You into football?

No, I don’t mean the yank way. I mean football, where the player’s feet actually touches the ball longer than for a bloody fraction of the game. Your kind of the game is more like a pussy rugby played with big icehockey-pads. And what kills me is that there is this scrawny and completely neglected player spending his contract on a bench, just waiting to come in for a few seconds and justify the name of the game. You know who I’m talking about... The kicker... In college football usually a foreign student who realized too late there is no soccer program at his new school and takes any bloody chance he can to kick a ”ball” (and I use the term loosely – balls are round). What were you people thinking when you named it?

Anyway, football, or ”soccer” as you so righteously call it, is a mad event in England. Of course, other countries in Europe in general have been affected by the everpresent football fever, but compared to them England is suffering from the plague. The French are catholics, the Greek are orthodox, the Swedes are protestants and English people are football. That’s it. Plain and simple.

Personally I don’t care much for it. Used to perhaps, back in the days when the teams weren’t full of all foreign players and proffesional divers. But it’s still going strong here. You see, it’s not a matter of picking  a team and stand by them through rain, sleet and snow. Its more of  a: which team would you like to die for? Which team colour would you like to get stabbed for wearing and get buried wrapped up in?

It’s not even about picking... You don’t sit down and go: ”Hmmm... I really like this player and the coach seems to have his head square on his shoulders.”

No you’re born into the team. Your old dad sticks a flag in your hand the day you are born and your mum’s tit sports a Manchester United tattoo up against your face as your suckling away. You never have a chance.

When working, I sometimes have to endure the idiots coming in singing their bloody chants and the like. And yes, they are all idiots. Not everybody who likes sports are idiots, but all idiots like sports. And they’re all in my bar. Bastards…

As much as I hate the local team losing, I fear them winning. Not twenty minutes after the game is over I have a drunken mob singing songs of victory and sporting trophies taken from the other team’s supporters; scalps, shirts, ears etc.

The stories I have to listen to are not lame jokes this time but more in the vein of ”... and see I threw this dart see... and it flew through the bleedin’ air right... like a bloody swallow see... and it hit this bloke right in his eye... HAHAHAHA... tossin’ wanka never SAW what hit him! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Bastards... If I had a penny for every time these idiots wrecked my bar I would buy their fucking team and send it to France. Let the poofs deal with them.

Well, it’s two minutes to five and I have ten minutes before the mob is here. I think I’m going to do ”paper work” and let Sam and Lawrence take the bar for a while.

Cheers.