That time is upon us; gentlewomen, where our manfolk plan BBQ’s in our back gardens (or if you are unlucky; or lucky depending on how you view it, they piss off down to the pub for the duration – mine won’t .. he’s not that daft).   When everyone all of a sudden gets a terribly potent attack of patriotism, or if an Englisher … gets all maudlin, or frets neurotically at the apparent lack of talent our lot has when they don’t manage to get  through the first round of games.

England, nay the World, goes mental for a time.  Time seems to stop.  World events are no longer given a moment to, due to the suspension of coverage by the TV Platforms as they cash in on FootBall Money Mania, and the Government’s propaganda is left to simmer till the final game.  (wish Propaganda would simmer/boil over/boil dry to be fair – but that’s another blog).

Oh !  Joy !  I hear some of you plaintively cry.  Yessss – the ever so more Tomboyish of the female species exult.  WoooHoooooo – Shouts I, in expectation of seeing a wack load of fit men, exerting themselves .. puffing and panting, stretching and reaching .. and generally being all manly-ish and sexy.

Now – don’t get me wrong.  I totally understand, and despair at the pack mentality of groups (not all of them, mind) of yobbish hooligans rampaging around other peoples countries, often causing havoc, and embarrassing us as a nation, and yes – I get the depravity of the inflated wages, and obscene corporate bottom lines of the football machine, not to mention the gargantuan ego’s that run rampant in such a large portion of these so called football greats.  Also – lest we forget where this tribalistic behaviour is routed =  in the Roman Arena ! along with the feeding of Christians to Lions, and the crowds blood lust to see the Gladiator (other team of players lets say) ‘get-it!’ Royally.  *takes a minute to think about Gladiators/give a little smile/sighs*

Sorry .. back in the room, where was I ?

Oh ! yes … … The World Cup…

I’ve decided to just let it wash over me.  Be in the moment.  Not think too deeply about the crass show, and it’s greater ramifications at the minute, and join in with the camaraderie.  I’m allowing myself to let it slide over me.  Perhaps smiling knowingly, like we women do, at the futility of it all, and then get well and truly ‘werried (Northern term) into the BBQ’s, Prosecco, and perv at the hotties from behind my sunglasses (oh wait – they are all night games?).

Here’s hoping that England wins this time so our men folk can stop acting like someones nicked the last Wooly Mammoth on the plain, and it’s the end of hunting season.  Poor dears.

Come On England … ?  🙂

Till Later My Lovelies.