My Life on a Plate

Football Crazy

I'm not a big fan of weekends. For those who work all week I can well understand the anticipation of some free time to do as you like, but for me it's two days spent visiting parents, cleaning and doing jobs for them and indulging in the excitement of the latest jigsaw.

Yesterday, after announcing hubby and I are going to Crete in July, I was subjected to an afternoon of war memories, as my mum's brother was posted there during WW2.

Sunday has been even worse than usual due to the nation's obsession with football. This morning the T.V, and radio discussed England's chances in their match today, including details of the whole squads fitness, lifestyle, sex life and bowel movements.

This afternoon the hype mounted as England prepared for their match against Ecuador. God help anyone who talks of the weather or Sunday dinner on such an auspicious occasion. As I walked to my parent's house the streets and roads were deserted as the whole nation prepared itself for an afternoon of groaning and cursing as our team struggle to get near the opponent's goalpost. Flags fly from every car and house window, including my parent's I'm ashamed to admit. Mother's idea of course, my dad's a Yank and not bitten by the soccer bug. Thank God for small mercies.

Mother sat through the match, alternating between swearing at the referee and urging on our hotchpotch of defensive players, As I dusted around their lounge, avoiding standing in front of the television, she commented on how good-looking some of the players are.

'Oh yes,' I agreed readily. 'The thing is these sort of nations are pure bred and have classic looks. Particularly the Italians and Brazilians. Not like the English, just a lot of mongrels we are really. I mean Wayne Rooney looks like an ugly version of Shrek.'

'I was talking about the ENGLISH side.' she replied. CLANG. I should have known better than to infer the English are less than perfect. Patriotism is something my mother excels in. I'm surprised at times she even talks to me, being half American. She doesn't speak to my father very much either, but that's another story.

So England manage to scrape through to the last eight with the one goal from the squeaky-voiced Beckham and since then the match, goal, next opponents and statistics have been the sole topic of conversation in my home and probably every other in England, as well as every channel on television.

Next Saturday, when England play their next match I'm tempted to go shopping in Nottingham. I reckon I might have the whole city to myself. And when England go out of the World Cup, as they surely will, I shall take great delight in watching all those flags being taken down and folded away for the next four years. What is it with this country that football is not a matter of life and death? It's MORE important.

Oh well, at least the Wimbledon Tennis Championships start tomorrow. But no doubt the first few days will be dominated by following the Brits as they fail miserably to make any impression. GAWD Beam me up Scottie.