July 10th June 15, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I know it’s rude to play with the fates like this, but I’m convinced I’ll be dead by the end of the Weltmeisterschaft. No, no, not another gloom post, I promise. No, it’s all the hard living. If I don’t put a lid on this World Cup boozing – I wouldn’t drink every day of the week otherwise, you see – and smoking and all-round festivating, I’m sure I’ll keel over any minute now. Which would be a chore. Then there are the friends in town and others arriving soon, so some serious festivating needs to be done with them, which is almost bound to involve a drop or two of booze and some fags as a perfect side-order. All of which means I might end up looking rather a lot more like an archetypal English football fan – the sun’s helping pinkness levels, obv – very soon indeed and will blend in as well as the next man if they ever arrive en masse in Berlin. (The Swedes are doing that currently.)
But what else might have me croaking by the end of the World Cup? Well, although the only real connection between the piece of work I’m (not) doing and death should be that the very sight of it makes me want to donate my body to science whenever someone’s willing to come round and give me the lethal injection, I might actually be crucified for not doing it. I will do it, eventually, because I have to, and said I would, and I want the cash, and I’m vaguely a grown-up. But I’ll be hollered at by all and sundry if I’m late, which is looking deliciously likely. But who could and indeed should even work at times like these? When Germany is in (spiritual) bloom and having a renaissance of self-worth? And the sun is out, there’s beer to be drunk, fags to be smoked and oodles of so-fucking-gorgeous-I-can-hardly-bear-it men to leer at wistfully? Who? Angie isn’t, for one, because she was sitting with Pan Prezydent yesterday in Dortmund watching football, presumably, before trying hard to not celebrate Germany’s last-gasp winner TOO rabidly, lecturing him on gay rights and asking him if he was the older or younger of the two brothers. A twin? Really? Identical? Different eggs? Really? (The Russian is a twin. I know this conversation.)
And, speaking of the Russian, I might also be dead by the end of the Weltmeisterschaft because the Russian will have nagged me to death by then for precisely all the misbehaviour laid out in the first two paragraphs of this piece of tosh and one or several of my vital organs will give up the ghost and I’ll meet my maker. Damn, if I miss England raising the trophy for the second time – missed it first time round because I hadn’t got round to being born yet – I’ll be livid. Dead, but livid. Here’s to making it to July 10th.