A Load of Balls

Whilst I’m well known for talking spherical objects on a regular basis, there is one type of ball that manages to avoid my radar at every possible opportunity – football.  I’d sooner disembowel myself with a cheesegrater then eat my own liver after marinating it in lawnmower oil and stir-frying it in the blood of a ostrich than sit through the purgatory of the forthcoming World Cup, and in particular, the fate of 'Ingerland'.  In short, I am not a fan.

The radio, television and newspapers are already on the build up to the endless wall-to-wall coverage that will permeate every aspect of life in the coming weeks; pontificating about the tears and tantrums occurring on the pitch by the overpaid, underworked prima donna players to the tears and tantrums of the overpaid, underworked, botoxed shopaholic WAGS off the field.  And then the tears, tantrums, drunk and violent escapades of the fans – if not at the event in person (but don't let me stop you from going - more out there means less over here) then spilling out of every pub and club in town that has a TV screen.  For the next few weeks, the lives of normal sane people trying to go about their daily business will be turned upside down.  There is no escape from the event that is essentially Subbuteo with a fake tan.

"Cocktail dress; Jimmy Choos; Max Factor; WKD's ... oh no, I forgot the bloody bread!"

TV schedules will be filled with endless coverage of play, followed by replays, followed by analysis (ie has-beens talking about how one man kicked the ball to another), followed by more replays followed by highlights.  Even if the TV companies deign to show a normal programme, it inevitably gets cancelled at the last minute when Borneo Brothel Bangers vs Spalding Inbreds goes into extra time because not one man in 22 can get a ball into a 30 foot hole within 90 minutes.  No wonder Cheryl Cole left Ashley.

There is no escape outside either; already the roads are full of cars and vans decorated with stickers and poorly mounted flags, some of which fly off at 70 mph straight into my windscreen on the A1.  Thanks for that, Peugeot driver.  Next time it’s you, not your flag that’s going under my truck. 

Another one bites the dust...

Even at home you’re not spared – as I delivered to the nether regions of some sink estate in Leicester today, I spied dozens of huge Ingerland flags draped from the upper floors of reclaimed council houses.  Pity they can't be colour coordinated to the sofa dumped in the front garden, or the Mk1 Astra abandoned on bricks in the drive, but you can't have everything.

So why will no one buy my house, then?

National Pride is the excuse given for all this bunting – what an absolute joke.  National Pride would be a Union Jack proudly flown all year round; not a St George Cross that only comes out  because there’s a kickabout going on in South Africa.  If you doubt me, ask anyone of these flag wavers if they can tell you the date of St George’s Day.  National Pride, my arse.

So I’m off to buy a cheesegrater and some lawn mower oil.  I’d also recommend that the good citizens of Grantham lock up their ostriches.  In the meantime, I’ll be following ‘Ingerland’ in my own way:

Cartoon by Dariush Radpour