Way past bedtime

Gatic Slotdrain

I got an email with the subject: News from Gatic Slotdrain. It took a while. "Are we buying him?" And "was it Russia or Poland he played for?" Then I realised. Trade literature.

Way, way past my bedtime

It was almost like being a grown-up. After midnight. Last time must have been new year's eve. I was dozing then because Jools Holland's line up wasn't too scintillating. Two long, hard, interminable days without football. There were two T20 games on Sky, but even so...

Then, when the football's back, we're playing cricket. Not great timing, but playing always comes first before spectating. “Spectating” reminds me of “England's Irie”:

Hey diddle-diddle

There's a fella in the middle

And I think he's pulling my string

My wife's lactating, I'm spectating

It's a football thing

Poetry like that does not come along every day. Seriously. The song's writing credits are Strummer, Keith Allen and Black Grape i.e. Sean Ryder.

MM was born 1990. Italia. Lost on penalties to Germany in the semi-final. Great tournament. MM's first word was 'goal'. A son can have Dada or Dad as their first word and that's enough for a whole lot of pride. But 'goal'. That's a lifetime bond. Not everyone will understand, it's a football thing.

So we played, quick beer, some crisps, home. Curry (turkey balti in thirty minutes - not bad going), plates, laps, telly, first semi. Note to the medical profession: blood pressure tablets, and how to save a fortune. Forget all those relaxation techniques. “Now, breathe” now bog off, you new age hippy. Opposite effect. They wind me up. Of course I'm breathing, you stupid tart. If I weren't I'd be dead. Which, in some terms, is the ultimate relaxed. Forget what you mongs call exercise and we call torture. I had an occupational therapist ask me whether I'd tried dance. I probably did that snorting dog poo through a straw face. “No”. “You should” she said, “low impact on the joints, good cardiovascular”. What's wrong with chasing a squash ball around a court? That's cardiovascular and I can summon enthusiasm to do that. Low impact? I like high impact. Generally, into an opposing player. I like tackles flying in. I like sitting an opponent down on his arse with a rising ball. As MM said yesterday, he liked receiving the beamer. It isn't going to get him out. It's an easy scoring chance. There's another run for us for the no-ball. I like bowlers digging it in short. I get runs off those deliveries, if I can hit them. If I can't hit them, they 'aint hitting the stumps. That's good clean fun. Standing in a line with an instructor and copying the jigging about? That's old-folks home for the demented. No thanks. I'll be the old boy in the corner playing chess or gambling my happy pills on the geriatric Texas Hold 'Em table with the cigar and whisky gang. Nights like this lower my blood pressure. Prescribe leaving work early, picking up MM, playing a highly competitive but good spirit game of cricket, then home for the football. Work = stress and sport = all enveloping involvement = not worrying about work = less stress.

Pills and new age bull and visiting the doctor = more stress.

So. Portugal gave it a go and fair play to them they're not a one-man team, whatever that one man believes. They had the better first half. The second half wasn't sterile as the surface scratching, superficial, perma-tan lightweights would suggest. It was a good contest. In a context where neither team wants to concede, and the less time left to equalise after conceding, the less they want to concede, it was fascinating. Spain battered them in extra time. Win win. A dramatic goal and a dramatic climax or the drama of penalties. Penalties is was. Spain through. Portugal out.

Tonight? Germany v Italy is a lipsmacking prospect.