I can't get excited about the World Cup, not at the moment anyway.
I think it's all the blanket regurge on Sky Sports News. Every Ledley King hiccup, each clearing of Steven Gerrard's throat, the documentation of Gareth Barry's bowel movements ad nauseam. Oh madonna!
It's this or 'Everybody Loves Raymond,' though, and that's a road I'm not about to go down.
It reminds me of the DH Lawrence poem 'Tourists,' which is just about the only poem I can recite in full. You're about to understand why.
'There is nothing to look at anymore. Everything has been seen to death.'
Horrible and succinct, no? Well that's what state the football has me in. There's nothing new happening and we don't have a Roy Keane shitfit to collectively wet our dungarees over.
This is not a rant against France. Who gives a fuck about France? Let them win the thing. I don't care. Thierry Henry could be brought up on pensioner molestation charges and I wouldn't bat a bollock, this country needs a nice warm cup of get the fuck over it.
Of course, come Friday I'll be euphoric, it's just the preamble and the weekend drinking postamble that has me all cross and broken.