WORLD CUP DIARY

-The World Cup is always a magical time for me. It takes me back to my childhood, standing on the terraces at Wigan with my old Dad, eatin’ pies.

I never found out what we were doing there. I hated football, and my father was mostly into elephant polo. Nor did he ever give me any of his pies. I remember when I was eight he said to me, “You’re basically just an arsehole.”


-Apparently, a lot of black Britons are supporting African teams in this tournament. A couple of World Cups ago I was in Rafah in the Gaza Strip, and the Palestinians were all cheering for Tunisia and Morocco, and dusty places generally. Yet Europeans don’t seem to be afflicted by this kind of ethnic solidarity. At any rate, when Sweden score I don’t think, “Yes! Another victory for the whites!”

If anything, it slightly annoys me when they win. They think they are so great with their social spending. “Ve are not haffing the beggars in Sveeden.” As far as I’m concerned, they can get stuffed.


-Oh to be in England, now that football’s there, to drive around beeping my car horn like a cunt, and taunt my idiot countrymen in German. “Ha! Ha! One-nil, Englisher dumbkopfs.” The expression of hatred on their dumb resentful faces sends my pleasure sensors soaring.

Most of them are too thick even to insult me properly, though sometimes they’ll come back with, “Two World Wars and one World Cup,” which I always counter with, “Three World Cups and one economic miracle,” and then Deutschland Uber Alles or the Horst Wessel Song. During Italia 90 I got in three different fights. It’s always a magical time for me.