June 2010

[Sweder]

Finally hauled my corpulence off of the World Cup sofa to embrace the daylight this morning. My post-Valencia Lager-belly was in full wobble, an ugly, miniature Mexican wave of blubber circumnavigating a well-covered waist. The day met me with a warm wet kiss, humidity rising off the hills as I chugged wearily up towards Blackcap.

Pausing at the top of the sheep field I looked back to see Tess stood on the track. She was looking back towards home and we both knew who she was looking for. I called her on and she came willingly, bounding with all the vim and vigour of a dog half her age. Whilst Willow wallowed in the sheeps' trough I pondered last night's tale of woe from the hinterlands of Rustenberg. England got their 2010 World Cup campaign off to the best possible start; an early goal, lots of possession, a gently impressive display despite the best efforts of a well-drilled American team and the inept coverage of ITV HD - yes, they really flashed up a commerical precisely as Gerrard pounced, returning only to see him rubbing Wayne Rooney's stubbly noggin in a most unpleasant way. 'We' had the game in the bag.



USA! USA! had possesion in senna-field; the quarterback crossed the line of skirmish to the twenny, fired in a straight-shot at the UK goal-tender .... fumble! Touchdown! Touchdown USA at the end of the second kwarda! We are TIED in Roostenberg!!! and we're back after this word from your inept broadcaster ... Hoots of derision drowned in a sea of Vuvuzelas, disbelief writ large on the non-plussed UKGB DE-Fence. You gotta be fuckin' KIDDIN me. At least, as Vasos Alexander offered this morning on a subdued radio Five Live broadcast from the Highveld, Rob Green put his hand up after the match. Shame he didn't try that last night. Hello hubris my old friend ...

Of course it'll mean bugger all when (John Terry) (Rio Ferdinand) Stevie MBE raises that little gold statuette in July, hoisted onto Emile Heskey's impossibly broad shoulders moments before Mr Em stumbles sending another team-mate to casualty... Last night was doomed, condemned to failure before a ball was kicked by previously trustworthy presenter Adrian effing Chiles. Having traded in the divine Ms Bleakley (nay Lampard) for three ghosts of football past - Gareth Southgate (currently unemployed) Edgar Davids ( hopped up on a combination of Wacky Baccy and weapons-grade valium) and the recently exhumed corpse of former rant champion Kevin Keegan - the affable Everyman uttered the immortal line 'what could possibly go wrong now'.
As Don Fabio would surely have screamed in his face: 'Why, Chiles, Why? WHY??'

We'd hate it if it were all plain sailing. We'd have nothing to moan about, no wailing, no gnashing of teeth, no endless rounds of navel-gazing and self-flagellation. The hope matches the hype and we suck it all up to blow it out in great clouds of super-heated exasperation. Last night, right on 40 minutes, another tranche of polar icecap melted into the ocean as a gulf stream of exhaled disbelief laced with expletives rushed out of England. It's just like this in other countries you know. Oh yes, in Spain last week I watched a detailed catalogue of horror on Channel Dos, all the twists of fate that have denied Espana their moment of ultimate glory in the Beautiful Game. Bizarre goalkeeping exploits from countries without so much as a blade of grass to their name, goal-posts moved via telekenesis to intercept certain winners, shocking penalty misses, inexplicable collapses inches from the goal-line and that bloody linesman against South Korea in 2002. The program was in Spanish so I missed the poignancy of some of the interviews conducted with former players and managers all bearing the haunted look of people just returned after an alien abduction. It was the underlying score that really drove home the pain of a nation, a rolling dirge that would have been equally comfortable playing under the most distressing scenes from Schindler's List. I swear one montage, beautifully crafted in sepia, featured a lone red & yellow scarf pulled over a young lad's face as the final whilst blew on another failed campaign.

Our '44 years of hurt' may indeed weigh heavily around the necks of our 'Golden Generation', but at least we have a star above our badge. England is one of only seven countries to have won the competition since its inception in 1930. There's a long way to go in this tournament. Many a Vuvuzela will have been rudely shoved up a local backside before we're done and one of the 'same old faces' walks off with the gold. A sense of perspective is required, as it is amongst the fleet street rats intent on watching Robert Green’s skinned hide flap fly-bitten and mangy from the gates of the England hotel.



As many of us have cried at the telly this week (in an effort to ward off the incessant buzzing that drowns out the jingoistic singing and xenophobic cheering that are de rigueur at these gatherings) enough already. I don't care if is culturally sensitive or if they do provide a cheap way for impoverished locals to feel part of the event. I don't give a flying fuck. FIFA must act and act swiftly, else they may face a tsunami of claims for tinitus that even their swollen coffers can't handle. I'm done with the endless blowing of the bloody horns thing.

Speaking of tellies I need to get a new one. Try as I might I could not make myself heard above the infernal din. The players clearly couldn’t hear me, something my wife pointed out continuously in between unhelpful questions such as 'why are we so rubbish' and 'are the USA any good then?'

Wringing sweat and beer out of my recently-acquired lard was a good way to exorcise the demons and prepare for more football this afternoon. By the time I reached home I felt a good deal better, if completely knackered. Back to the sofa it is then.