The World Cup

It’s been a subject that, for obvious reasons, I’ve been unwilling to touch since May 22nd. I’ve been avoiding all things football (and Blackpool) like the plague. But it’s been a difficult task. Why? Another four years have passed and the World Cup, the greatest stage of them all, is upon us once again.

Who cares? I don’t. Lets face it – I’m Welsh, so what the fuck do I know about the World Cup? We’re never there. I know plenty about the qualifiers. You know, the qualifiers where we promise so much before a ball is kicked and then eventually fall to the footballing giants of Macedonia, Estonia, Latvia or Georgia (remember when they beat us 5-0?)

The World Cup for thousands of England fans means a happy trip to wherever the tournament is being played. The World Cup to us Welsh folk means a happy trip to anywhere else (normally alongside the Scots and the Irish). But, nevertheless, even with interest in the World Cup at a minimum, we still get it rammed down our throat with the usual nauseating vigour.

“England this, England that – this is our year”. Yes, it’s your year. To get knocked out in the quarter finals. Again. On Penalties. Again. Let’s face it, perennial quarter finalist England have as much chance of winning the tournament as Wales have of actually qualifying for the fucking thing. Or, to put it in context, as much chance as I have of a threesome with Cheryl Cole and Susan Kennedy. It just ain’t happening, no matter how much you dream about it. Sorry.

That doesn’t, however, stop the media and other companies bombarding us with all the usually bollocks about it though. Wherever you turn its World Cup. Please, for the love of god, stop. Or just at least stop showing the adverts, printing the papers and talking about it in Wales. And Scotland. And Ireland. We didn’t have all the kerfuffle for USA ’94 (can’t imagine why?) and we don’t want it now.

Panasonic, Pringles, Nationwide are all plugging their World Cup (and England) friendly products. But, by far the worst is the vomit inducing Carlsberg ‘team talk’ advert. “Do it for Bobby”. I’m not being funny, but if the couldn’t do it for him in ’86 and ’90, when he was the fucking manager, what chance have they got now?

Talking of ’86 and sunny Mexico – football bore witness to its greatest moment, when, in the Azteca, 120000 fans saw the finest goal ever scored. And they also saw Maradona, on a mazy dribble, skip past the whole England side before slotting past Peter Shilton in another decent effort. ‘The Hand of God’, so called as Maradona said the goal came from “A little with the head of Maradona, a little with the hand of God”. And yet you still whinge about it. To be fair, if a fat 5’5” midget can out jump your keeper, you deserve to lose. It’s been 24 years. Stop moaning.

And now, back to today. In the news we’ve got to hear about Gareth Barry and Steven Gerrard being injury worries and the build up today of who Fabio will take on the plane to South Africa. It doesn’t matter – Capello could take Jesus Christ, play him upfront alongside Rooney, and England still wouldn’t win the World Cup. Fuck me, Israeli commandos just shot 9 (alleged) pro-Palestinian aid workers trying to get aid into Gaza, but the news concentrates on the important issue of if Tom Huddlestone has done enough to make the final 23.

I will still, out of morbid curiosity, watch the World Cup. I will be initially supporting USA, Algeria and Slovenia. And then, if England progress, whoever else plays them. I will wait in anticipation for them to fuck it all up, again. Then bemoan something that wasn’t their fault and reminding us that you actually won the competition in 1966. How could we forget?

But for me, honestly, I don’t care who. The World Cup is about as useful to a Welshman as a sheep with no arsehole.