Wahay, the world cup kicks off this weekend, and I love it. Love it I tell you. Beautiful or not, the one and only true world cup. Many sports claim to have a world cup, only association football actually has one due in no small part that in order to have a world cup, you’ve kinda gotta have a sport the whole world plays. No point in a world cup when you’ve got a sport that the majority of the planets inhabitants are unaware exists. Some dumb shit with a stupid shaped ball for fat blokes, or a game with a bat and ball that goes on for an endless stream of tedious days broken by tea breaks and is called a draw when it rains. What you’ve got there is a tournament of a dull sport, not a world cup.
Oh and beer doesn’t have a world cup. End of. If it did a pint of lout would win.
The world cup is also a wonderful time for snobs to look down on us chavs for wearing soccer shirts or sticking flags on our cars, but being a chav myself it also allows me to display my sneering aggressive contempt towards my betters despite no desire to obtain either the overpriced nylon shirt or tatty flag. The nation is celebrating, join in or go home and watch a DVD box set.
Association football is the one true meritocracy, and I love it. I don’t love it enough to pay money to see it during the football season, when it’s cold and raining and costs £40 a ticket, or even play it, but free on telly it beats watching miserable cockneys whisper menacingly at each other in a grim soap opera. It is the sport everyone has played, everyone has had an opportunity to play, and those that showed a bit of talent are able to play it well enough to make a decent living out of it. I am uninterested in sports a small section of society play, and whenever such sportsmen pull on an England shirt, whoever they claim to be representing they are not representing me. I wish such sportsmen no ill or misfortune, only apathy and disinterest at their endeavours. Running and jumping? Tennis? Golf? Archery? Dressage? Cricket? Do one. Keep it and do one.
Football is different in every sense of the word. It is the only time I am at all interested in my Englishness, because I choose to and not because someone tells me to celebrate my Englishness. I shall watch every England game, and any others that look decent, like Brazil. I shall neck a skinfull of lout and appal the polite sensibilities of others shouting “Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo”
I shall be watching it at home, with a few cans of lout, occasionally pubs with the odd pint, and in the unlikely event of England doing well at parties people put on. If you want a quiet pint, stay at home until it’s over ‘cos the likes of me will be shouting “Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo” and annoying the crap out of you.
Any tossers that tell me “they are a bunch of overpaid nancy boys” will get a lesson in economics. Off of me I tell you. A lesson in supply and demand and scarcity of resource. That footballing talent has economic value because people are willing to pay to see it due to its entertainment factor. That economic value is dependent on scarcity of resource and the market determines their remuneration. That no one gets the job because they went to the right school, have got the right certificate, know the right people or know a funny handshake. They are where they are because they can play, and you are not in the team because you can’t. Meritocracy, guv. It ain’t unfair. It is nought but snobbery and jealousy to be unhappy that a thick lad from the rough end of a rough town with no GCSE’s who can kick a ball earns more in a week than you or I do in a year and is rattling a pop star bird. Good luck to the uneducated incoherent lads. In the words of James Brown “I got mine, don’t worry about his”. Want to moan about professional sport, the lack of Corinthian spirit, the lack of amateur idealism? Have a read of this, then moan. Professional sport is how the people took the game off the idle classes. Professional sport is the key to its accessibility, how the working man played and beat his betters, its whole meritocratic nature.
And among this glory sits the supermarket special offer lout to enjoy the games with. 24 cans for a tenner in Sainsbury’s. 3 boxes of 15 for £20 in Tesco. All dirt cheap loveliness with Sainsbury’s winning on the basis you get 48 cans for £20 opposed to 45. Yes 24 for a tenner is back! Beautiful, sheer unmitigated glory! Surely an omen of unlikely success for our overpaid nancy boys.
You’re not getting a quiet pint for a month, just accept it, you can’t beat ‘em, get some lovely dirt cheap lout and join ‘em. Proper lout mind, proper official lout, not some pong a dodgepot ale brewer has knocked up that ain’t official. Oo no.
Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo. Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo. Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo. Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo. Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo. Eng ger Land, Na Na Na. Eng ger Land, Vindaloo.