Fuck you, World Cup, getting all good and stealing my days and nights away from me.
Nights I would have spent getting angry at Friends, Lee Evans and Laser Eye Surgery advertisements are now made out of football, decent football, and precious little to complain about. To write about. To think about.
Giles and Brady and Kaka and Dunphy and Robben and Dunphy and Bill and Darragh Moloney are doing all my thinking for me.
Where has this left me? Back in the 1980s, if you must know. I swear to fuck I listened to eight Pet Shop Boys songs in a row in work today, with a bit of Talk Talk and Madonna to boot. La Isla Bonita. What is happening to me?
Things got particularly rowdy in the office at one point, either a birthday or somebody bringing their baby in to be cooed over, so I found myself scrambling for my headphones and searching out the first song that came into my head. It was Owen Paul's 'My Favourite Waste Of Time.'
That has never happened before.
More to the point, what has the World Cup got to do with my being on the turn, on the turn to the tune of a series of camp 1980s classics?
Fuck all, Bill.