Like an unfaithful girlfriend with a trusting, naïve boyfriend we keep giving the
football team another chance and getting monumentally disappointed.
Last night I put on my
t-shirt and mooched up to my mate’s pub for a few Guinness. As soon as I walked
in I knew it would be a good night. Everyone singing, the DJ playing the
football songs and lots of flags and t-shirts decorating the place. I also had 3 bets on: one for Rooney to score first England goal; one for Gerrard to score first England goal; one for England to win 3-1 (all in 90 minutes of course).
Liffy water was only £2 a pint and free hot dogs. Managed to find a rare spare seat and off we went.
After about 30 minutes I realised it was simply more of the same shite, different year. Albeit not QUITE as bad as the
game in World Cup 2010.
20 minutes in and the good mood started to fade in the pub, the only time everyone roared was when we had one of our many failed attempts at goal or when our goalie cleared one back from the Italians.
I went outside for a ciggy at half time and, due to not spending all day drinking like my inebriated bretheren, was able to see just how pissed up everyone was. Some bloke having a fag had a huge, red lipstick kiss on his left cheek. I laughed and went “you know what’s on your face” and his girlfriend (with red crosses drawn on both cheeks) giggled.
He replied “yeah ‘hic!’ you want one?”
“Not from you!”
He looked hurt. I pointed out I was joking and then added “didn’t realise you meant her.”
He then grabbed the back of my neck and the back of hers and went “OH! So you DO want one?” and tried to pull us together. Problem was it hurt and he looked quite annoyed when I prised his fingers off and glared at him. We then had a nonsensical chat about his window cleaning business while his girlfriend raised her eyebrows at me over his shoulder and shrugged.
Inside for a piss before second kick off and while having a slash, two guys start arguing. Me and another lad thought they were about to have a rumble, but one suddenly went “go on then, show me!” and the other unzipped his fly and lobbed his cock out, followed by the other bloke copying him. The more pissed up of the two then burbled “yeah, you’re right mate. It is fucking massive, sorry about that!” while swaying on his feet and looking like he was about to fall into the wash basin.
By 90 minutes I was bored out of my brains.
were playing “adequately” but still not up to the standards of a team in the
European Cup, Quarter Finals. Only last week one of the red print rags was
offering a free tube of Wayne Rooney hair gel, claiming that the ugly bastard’s
new hair transplant plus Wella Shockwaves Ultra Strong Rock & Hold Gel
Styler had “catapulted England to the fringes of Euro glory.”
When the Extra Time whistle was blown I’d lost all interest and was outside after having ponsed another ciggy to alleviate the boredom. Even the “disallowed due to offside” Italian goal failed to get more than few half-hearted “fuck yous” from the audience.
As penalties went ahead we all felt like we’d walked in and caught the missus shagging the milkman….again, but really couldn’t be arsed to get angry with either of them or listen to their half hearted excuses and cries of “I can explain everything.”
When the final
penalty went in at least four people near me necked the remainder of their
pints and went “right! Fuck it! Off home!”
All in, a predictably piss poor performance from a bunch of spoilt, overpaid twats.
The most interesting thing was predicting if one of the dick measurers was going to thump anyone as he stood swaying near the bar and swearing at the plasma screen TV on the wall (the other one had already gone home after his wife dragged him out).
I ripped up my betting slips and mooched home.