Come on!

Three lions on my shirt
Jules Rimet still gleaming
Thirty years of hurt
Never stopped me dreaming...

I'm not really all that into the beautiful game as it happens, but since I met Pat it's been a part of my life. Sometimes in the way that Camilla Parker Bowles was a part of Dianas life. But nonetheless, in between complaining I budged up and made room for it. At times I even took a secret grudging pleasure in it.

The snobby killjoy in me detested the football aesthetic ( the nylon!) and the fact that a big game always seemed to be the occasion of a rambunctious gathering in our sitting room. A football gathering  always necessitated the kind of  snacks that I disdain.
Post match clean up usually indicated the carefree strewing of something like tortilla chip confetti all over my soft furnishings, oh and the sticky drinks and the bottles of beer . Ew.
My doomed efforts to encourage crudites as a match snack caused the house to ring with snorts of derisory laughter. Celery and carrot sticks simply didn't cut the macho mustard on a big match afternoon. And so the crudites were repudiated.
Of course the children are accessorised as well. With squeaky polyester scarves and sweat bands and woolly hats. Oh and (sob) Arsenal pyjamas too ( *cough* thank you Noreen, mistress of the subversive gift!)

But I'm such a conflicted snob because, well, I like it too. I can't help myself.
All that laddish male bonding has an innocent sweetness about it that makes me smile. And there is something about hearing my family roaring together as they jump from the sofas in perfect unison, or even slumped  and groaning in misery together, that makes me grin inwardly.

Musuing about all this made me think about this terrific Baddiel/Skinner/Lightening Seeds anthem.
Can it really be 14 years ago?


I love Frank Skinner.
America, you can keep your Brad Pitt and your George Clooney.
Come on England!