I’d forgotten how amusingly foul-mouthed Sunday morning footballers are as they thunder up and down the local park bellowing like walruses for the ball.

The majority of these pasty-faced neanderthals look like they’re trying to shake off a bad hang-over and communicate solely through swearing at one another, their opponents or the referee.

They all look like they’d struggle to run more than ten yards before collapsing and have all the grace of lumbering oxen. The flower of England’s youth? I think not

A typical exchange as I walked past went something along the following lines:

Player one: “John, John, JOHN! Pass the fucking ball down the middle. Down the fucking middle, you selfish ****.”

(The ball is intercepted by an opposing player after a tackle).

Player one: “Fucking hell. Are you fucking blind ref. Come on. You’re having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?”

Player two: “He’s not even watching the game. It was fucking foul, wasn’t it? Fucking ref.”

Referee: “Watch that language.”

Player one: “Fucking bollocks. Oi! Terry, over here. On the head. On my fucking head.”

(Passed ball misses player one again).

Player One: “For fuck’s sake! What am I? A spare fucking part, you ****. Get some fucking glasses.”

Indeed. Fair play on the fields of Eton and all that.

 

The only way England was ever going to hit the back of the net during the World Cup was to leave the task in the collective hands of die-hard fans who pissed away their money watching a succession of calamitous performances.

Pubs came up with the idea of putting mini goals in the men’s urinals to help those seeing double stay on target.

 

I question the wisdom of letting cephalopods dictate human thinking.

Novelist John Wyndham gave warning of Mother Nature’s soft skinned psychos but we still worship the likes of Paul the Octopus (see left) who had bookies in tears with his sure footed prediction of the World Cup’s winning teams.

Paul, also known as the soothsayer and psychic octopus, needs to be watched closely. It’s only a short eight legged step before he gets his slippery tentacles into other pies.

A sachet of weed killer in his tank should do the trick.

 

I had one of my more entertaining experiences yesterday which was getting inked while the tattooist was listening to the Japan vs Paraguay World Cup match.

It didn’t help that she was Japanese and paused in her work every time the yellow peril neared the opposition’s goal mouth leaving the tattoo gun dancing above my skin like some absent minded mechanical wasp.

It got worse. The game went down to sudden death penalties so I suggested she take a break to avoid puncturing my kidneys. Good call. They lost.

Someone put on Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ as a swansong which didn’t go down well with the vanquished.

We went through it all the previous Sunday when the German’s rolled over England with the ease of a panzer tank rolling over a deck chair. Bulldog spirit? More like Chihuahuas.

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