IT’S SUCH A SILLY SPORT…
| The other day, babeluvers, I spent one of the most frustrating nights of my life at Wembley Stadium in London. Nope, I wasn’t locked in Abigail Clancy’s underwear cupboard. Or out on a date with Sam Cooke – with her mum chaperoning. I wasn’t even listening to Kylie’s new album. I was watching a soccer match. England v Croatia. England needed to draw the match to qualify for next year’s European Championship Finals. How hard could it be? England had plenty of injuries but Peter Crouch was playing up front with Abigail Clancy showing up front to spur him on; David Beckham had flown in from LA to sit on the bench under the proud eye of Victoria; and the boys ran out on the pitch in virginal white while the Croatians had those weird red and white checks on their shirts that the fashion police surely condemned to a bonfire years ago. And what happens? The rookie English keeper (yeah, good decision to send a boy in to do a man’s job, coach) throws one in his own net after a couple of minutes and a shell-shocked English defence stands to attention rooted to the ground as the Croats help themselves to a second a few more minutes later. 2-0 down at half-time England bring on Mr Beckham. The ref takes pity on us and gives us a penalty when Defore, the other substitute, bends down to tie his shoe-laces and then Beckham crosses just at the moment Peter Crouch rehearses the lunge he plans to make on Abbie later that night. The ball ends up in the back of the net and it’s 2-2. At last all is as it should be. The new Wembley celebrates and we all dance on our seats. Yes England, you SHALL go to the ball. That’s when a tiny Croat dances through the static English defence and lashes a shot past the hopeless English child goalkeeper and it’s goodnight Irene. So that’s why I’m through with soccer. Too much hurt, y’see. You make heroes of these guys and they always let you down. I just can’t bear to go through all this again and again and again. Thirty years of hurt never stopped me dreaming sang that bloke from the Lightning Seeds with Baddiel and Skinner a few years ago but I reckon I have stopped dreaming. I mean, I’ll still go and see the Arsenal – a team of magicians, they are, but once you discount Theo Walcott none of ‘em are English and likely to be turning out for the national side any time soon. So I’m looking for a new sport to follow. Something manly. Miami Dolphins played an American football match at Wembley the other day (their logo is still emblazoned on the pitch and the turf is a quagmire to prove it) so maybe that’s the way forward. Anything involving cheerleaders is good, obviously. In fact, just give me the cheerleaders. Beach volleyball it is then. Or maybe motor racing is the answer. No shortage of babes at Grand Prix races. Or perhaps I should just join the tennis circuit and pursue the delectable Maria Sharapova around the world. And I do believe you get some hot babes on the ski-ing slopes, so I’ll be checking that out too. Anything frankly, except soccer for me from now on.
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