CurledWup

We all seemed to lose interest a bit when the English got knocked out of the World Cup, so sorry for not keeping this up.
We've a new blog though... not even football related.
Watch With Mothers will feature The Mothers of Inspection evaluating popular culture for your pleasure.

You can find it right here.

Bear with it, it's only just begun, as Karen Carpenter once warbled before she karked it.

I have to admit that my interest in all things world cup took a nosedive when England got knocked out, from a bit interested to none interested. But I did watch the final last night, and jolly good it was too, specially when that Zidane fellow headbutted that other bloke in the chest and he fell over ahahhhaaaa!

Now it is all over for another 4 years - although apparently there is a smaller version just for Europe in a couple of years, so I might watch a bit of that too.

C'MON YOU REDDDDSSSS!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA, see what happens? Mmm, see the disappointed faces, the little fucking flags crushed into the gutter, the bruised faces of ex-football widows on the receiving end of England’s pathetic 90 minute farce?

I watched the match, I knew we were going to lose so I went out there and got really pissed up to cheer on the other lot. It was deadly boring as I expected, I mean d-e-a-d-l-y boring, not even a vomiting Beckham to save the day, he couldn’t even be arsed to play let alone puke, then he resigned, the cowardly cunt.

I have to take my hat off to Rooney though, Neanderthal is as Neanderthal does. Well done chimp-boy for stamping on a fellow mans testicles and then losing your primate temper following some on-field grunting dispute with another barely-up-the-food-chain monkey. When it came to the penalties there is no doubt Mr. Opposable Thumbs would’ve seen us through, no question, so blame him for your loss. It’s been pointed out, by the way, that by the time the next World Cup comes round the pin-faced tree dweller will be 24. That’s if he doesn’t catch foot and mouth or have his legs pulled of by neighbouring Silverbacks arguing over his James Garner faced floozie.

The Moto GP on Sunday at Donington was good though, Rossi rode well to come up second, despite a broken wrist, it’s a really good season but, because you like watching namby pamby men-girls rolling on the grass going ‘ooh ow ref, ooh I’ve grazed my little finger, look’, you won’t be interested. Bless

So until 2010, goodbye cunts, goodbye everyone.

Queen came on iTunes. 'We Are The Champions' blared forth from the stereo. I stopped it short and put on a Roy Orbison song.

'In Dreams'.







Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

How thngs have changed since the beginning of the World Cup. Just three weeks ago, I was lonely as a cloud, gazing wistfully across the sun dappled valleys of South Yorkshire, composing poetry to the gentle breeze, the dancing willow, the gurgling brook, the comely maiden. As delicate as a newly hatched crocus, I skirted the fringes of society as tho 'pon a canoe of solitude and whimsy.

Thus, I looked towards the World Cup as a challenge to reassert my authority in the mainstream. Who'd have thought I'd be so succesful? Why, Dickens himself would scoff and baulk at the sight of me now. 'Was it not' he might whisper in awe, 'but thrice weeks hence that this individual before me was but a slender wisp. Well, I do declare that here, now, I observe a creature so hideous and malformed that I proclaim Shelley herself would struggle to conjure.'

Yes, reader, I am a man transformed. No more books and tea for I, for lager and tabloids are what interest me now. That and fighting. Oh yes, and an evening down Champs, getting muntered and banging a slag in the back of a motor. My bird asked me what I wanted for dinner yesterday, so I went 'Roooney' at her and then banged my face into the table until it was a smashed and bleeding mess, all becuase I watched some football.

Since it hant bin on for a few days, I thunk about writing some poetry but then I saw it were on tonight and I fought 'nah, poems is for benders and wimmin. I going out to hammer someone what is different.' All because I watched some football.

Oh! But is this not merely some new form of misery, for though I have friends a plenty in the boozer now, this is but a hollow conceit, as I am sure they like me not for my mirth and wisdom, but for my ability in a fight and capacity for imbibing. Because that's all most people care about, isn't it? Drinking and shouting, shouting and drinking. Oh, I long for my old life back again, away from this unendurable torture, but I know it shall never return, for I am doomed to this life of football. Football, football, everywhere football. Everywhere I look football. I don't even like it. Oh, why can't everyone be the same as I used to be?

Help me, frankly.

Hello. My name is Dave and it has been 10 days since my last post.

For the first few days it was deliberate. I was attempting to actually follow the tournament so that I could have something constructive to write about on this very blog. I watched a game on TV, one in a bar, bought the Sun and even discussed the various possible outcomes of the cup with customers and co-workers.

The result? Well, I reached a few conclusions - none of them revelationary, and most of them confirmed my suspicions - but I feel that I have reached them after due consideration and valid investigation.

Firstly: I know much has already been said on the Nation Thug Portrait that is Rooney drenched in blood and cum, but I like to add what a stroke of genius the follow up shot by Sophie Tits Anderton was. What is better than a legally sanctioned hooligan providing a modern portrait of the British man? Why, a stupid fucking tart mimicking that, but with her baps out... what a fucking concept. Give the thugs in Page 3 Wank Land a fantasy, remind us all that we are an island race with serious tribal issues and prove once and for all that the modern woman is still entirely subserviant to the image of the male. Cunts.

Secondly: the advertising, culture, news and opinion is far beyond saturation point, beyond nausea and beyond obessession. It is disturbing, the frantic and desperate collusion by business' terrified to lose some of that precious football dollar is nearing pathological greed. This isn't about supporting the game, it's not about sponsoring sport or inspiring youngsters, it's not even about the game of football anymore. It's not about the players, or the teams, or the countries, or the fans, or FIFA and it's certainly not about who lifts the trophy. It's about money. Money money money money money money. It's about huge corporations ramming their name and logo (fuck the product, it's about ideeeeeas) deeper down into our conciousness and furthing their expansive grasp over EVERY ASPECT OF CULTURE AND ANYTHING THAT ANYONE HOLDS DEAR. These people are obscene cocksuckers and it amazes me, genuinely, that any football fan can even watch the game any more. I don't care two hoots about football and I am screaming angry on their behalf.

Thirdly: I find football to be really threatening. Or at least the culture of it. I keep looking for this national spirit I hear so much about, but all I do is flinch whenever I walk past someone in an England shirt for fear they'll suddenly yell 'Rooooooney' in my ear again. I belong to a forgotten race of peoples, the 1/3 of people who don't care - the nerds forced to pretend, the foreigners forced to become patriotic, the women forced to become tomboys, the men who find the alpha-male role offensive. Whenever I mention my objections to the money side of it all I receive the same looks as when I expand my 9/11 theories.

Fourthly, and finally: Football is boring. It is, sorry. I tried to watch some games but they were unbearably dull. I didn't feel any excitement when England roared 2-1 ahead in extra time as I knew 100% that they'd fuck it up. They did. I tried the football spirit but I found it oppressive. I tried hating it and just got bored.

And that's where I am now. Too bored to care if we go all the way and too bored to hope England get knocked out. I just want it to be over... soon... please... just fucking finish already...

That Zidane goal - as promised...

Doesn't quite catch the magic of seeing it come from nowhere in open play, but you get the gist...

I work with a Spanish girl who is in a very bad mood today after the trouncing last night. She claims that Spain would have won if it wasn't for Henry's acting, denying that France would have scored a single goal against Spain had the decision not gone France's way. This has had the effect of a) making her seem a very bad sport, and b) slightly irritating me for reasons I can't put my finger on.

Now, I told her that I was supporting Spain last night to make her feel better (out of the very goodness of my heart) but that was actually a lie, as I was really cheering on France. After commisserating with her, I asked her if she would now be transferring her allegiance to England, to which she replied "No, I shall be supporting Portugal". How rude is that?!? (Bearing in mind she THOUGHT I was supporting stupid Spain last night). BRING ON THE TEBBIT TEST, I say.

I see a chap called Clive has sensibly responded to my wish to see Blecks barf up his Tangfastics and fizzy pop. What a filthy fucking pig, a disgrace to humanity and, indeed, the country, but it’s just the sort of thing one expects of a person like that. I don’t recall Carl Fogerty taking off his helmet and yacking up his Sidi boots after he won a double at Brands Hatch in 1996 (the biggest recorded sports crowd in UK history, no one was arrested, no one threw a punch and no one threw up btw)

I was delighted to see it though, it was utter poetry, however, I must question the mentality of the sort of chap that actually sources such revolting material for another? I can't fathom these footie types but I’m pretty sure if I requested an m-peg that displayed a young lady being penetrated in all her holes by 6 well-endowed men, and then vomiting two pints of spunk all over her high heels Clive would be able to assist, eh Clive?

So, Saturday and it’s all over. Gland don’t have a hope in hell, it’s going to be a fucking massacre. No way am I going to leave my flat, I was out after the last Gland vs. X match (which we won) and this cunt was inexplicably running up and down the high street screaming abuse at all and sunder (we’d won, right?) even trying to fight an entire pub (though we’d won) before he got nicked. The pussy was all meek and calm when the Police got hold of him, spoke volumes to me. What a 24 carat footie cunt. Just think what this chap and others will be like when we lose, it will be carnage. Murder.

Instead I am going to install my girlfriend (bet you footie chaps wish you had access to one of those) and allow her to perform sex on me (that’s sex, not pulling yourselves off in front of the internet) while ‘Gland get their arses whipped by the Portuguese. This time they will get theirs and all this nonsense will finally cease. And I will rue the day. And ‘Posh’ will have to make do with Hello and Okay magazine. And Beckhams can do his sick up in the comfort of his gold plated diamond encrusted bog in private. The bald cunt.

France deservedly won, despite Henry's theatrics to win the free kick. It was still a free kick, it's just a shame that he forced it into a card situation.

France's third goal was utterly sublime, all down to the genius of Zidane. I don't often speak of how amazing I find Zidane's focus and ability because I have a French friend who is prone to smuggery about the whole thing. He sits in his shed eating bizarre cheeses and feasting on horsemeat whilst being all precious about wine and stroking his Zizo shrine.

But I accept it's a universal and profound truth that Zidane, despite his already advanced years, is the best in the world. His experience and understanding of the way the game will be played is genuinely shocking. It seems to be second nature for him, if not first. Watching him keep an eye on the keeper in the slow motion replay, you see that he knows exactly the right point to glimpse in order to work out the keepers precise intentions. And his final touch was unstoppable, despite kicking the ball from sideways on. Ok, I was a little bit addled, but I couldn't stop saying 'That was fucking amazing' to my bored and entirely uninterested lady.

I'll try and embed the goal because, for me, it's the goal of the tournament so far. Ok, it wasn't looping all over the place and it didn't swerve from 30 yards out, but it a great demonstration of the pace, timing and power of a master. Pity he's French.

(Ronaldo's opening goal was pretty special too).

I observed, last night, whilst nearly watching the Ukraine Switzerland match the commentators sneering at the two team captains as they shook hands at the start of extra time. 'Well, it's that kind of attitude that has led to the disappointing 0-0 scoreline' they said, or words to that effect. Meanwhile, the last full game I watched was Holland and Portugal acting like children. Portugal coach Scolari said this: 'Jesus Christ said turn the other cheek, but Luis Figo is not Jesus Christ' which is either magnificantly cryptic or the most astoundingly meaningless selection of words ever. Perhaps something got lost in translation. Meanwhile, the media surrounding England's progress has shifted focus from the lumpy shout men with red face to the hilariously named 'WAGS'. Mrs Beckham and other the others tottering the streets of Germany, loaded with shopping and hair and face. Tales of table top dancing in late night bars, karaoke and tequilas. The England team sport amusingly fussy haircuts on the pitch. Australia should have beaten Italy, but allowed them to cheat their way to victory.

I'm still enjoying it, honestly.

David Beckham Throwing Up for England

Here you go Fur, fill your boots.

I am disgusted and appalled at the BBC’s coverage of the world cup. We’ve had 24 hour coverage since this fucking disaster began, pundits, stats, players, coaches, the actual coaches they travel in, WAG’s wops wigs wankers galore, yet they fail, even after requested by Gerry Linecars during the post match coverage, to show Beckhams doing a sick up.

Without doubt the most important development in the history of the game, the Gland captain crouched over himself barking at the lawn, was omitted from my viewing pleasure. Instead we were treated to a sudden and, without so much as a cursory warning by Auntie Beeb, close of up of his fake titted chipolata-lipped stick of a wife who had been gassing to Cheryl ‘BNP’ Tweedy just as hubby scored.

Being fully aware of the fact the cameras would be focussing in her re-constructed fizzog, ‘Posh’, before she reacted to her husbands fluke of a goal, turned to face the camera and performed a quite explicit pout, prior to carefully gurning some sort of a expression of approval (lest her collagen implants flew out of her face killing a player on the other side of the pitch) and air hugged Tweedy (I bloody would by the way, despite her hatred of black people, just because she’s dating a black man we all know her true colours are implanted in the face of that young lady in the loos of that club in Newcastle, yeah) who appeared to be genuinely delighted at her mates husbands achievement.

In this one instance it was perfectly clear to the whole wide world that ‘Posh’, possibly the most talentless creature to have emerged from cosmetic surgery since Lea from Big Brother had space hoppers inserted under her skin, is married to her balding husband because he’s fucking loaded. Her meagre Spice Girls royalties would’ve dried up faster than a puddle of Camel’s piss in the desert, so her union with multi millionaired Brecks, who, let’s face it, has the brains of Plankton, seems very apt in terms of keeping the Gucci bag stuffed full of squillons of quids, and herself well ensconced in the public eye.

For the sake of my health, so I’m not subject to ‘Poshs’’ rubbery face for a second longer, released from hearing how much of the equivalent of third world debt she and the WAG’s spent on Cristal last night, you must all fall to your knees and pray we are halted by the Portuguese.

Moreover I DEMAND one of you skins get me a picture, better still an m-peg of Bekhams losing his Golden Grahams. It’s essential the balance is redressed or someone will have an accident. Kapiche?

Blast. On the BBC updates the Australia vs Italy matched looked to be a thriller. I was even holding out for extra time so I could rush from work straight to a pub to see how things turned out, despite the fact that payday is three days away and my pocket is as barren as Hackney library. But Italy flukily won it, right at the end, so I went home hoping that the game of two underdogs (is that possible?), Switzerland and Ukraine would be an exciting one. Surely they would play out of their skins for a chance to reach the quarter finals? Surely not. It was drab. It was drabness intensified by the drab monotone of Mick McDrab McCarthy. I even turned over for short bursts of Big Brother at times, perfectly certain that this was one that would go to penalties. Flicking over when it went to extra time to watch Saxondale on BBC2, I'd almost lost the will to live. I put myself through the torture of penalties and decided that there was a magnet in the ball - as no team could ever miss that many chances, especially penalties. Not the best game of the tournament so far.

I'm also annoyed that Ghana vs Brazil - set to be one of the best games so far (if not THE best) is on at 4pm. Damn and blast. Spain & France should be a good game but I suspect it will be a good deal more tactical, certainly more defensive. Ghana and Brazil will both go for it. Maybe I can feign illness...