I’m finding it hard to care about the football.
Actually, that’s not true. I’m finding it really easy to not care about the football. I never have and, this year, I’ve had the best opportunity to care even less because I don’t work with anyone who would organise a sweepstake where I be guilted into getting a shit team because all the good ones have gone by the time it got to our end of the office.
There’s a car across the road with an England flag on it. There’s houses dotted about with flags hanging out of the windows. And yesterday, on the way to mums, I saw a house with more England flags on it than you would think possible. An entire washing line was full of the flags.
I just don’t think I could ever care that much.
Especially as what they’re effectively doing there is putting the washing line out of commission during weeks of absolute Grade A drying weather.
My (diminishing) Facebook feed is filled with people rapidly rearranging their plans for Saturday, when the next England match is due to be played. Everything’s being delayed or brought forward because they need to watch the football. I’ve seen birthday parties being shifted about. Someone Carole works with is stressing about the final clashing with Little Mix performing in Huddersfield, in case England go all the way. Because, of course, it is coming home. Everyone says so. All the pissing time.
Genuinely, I couldn’t give a fig.
I’d quite like to be working while the match is on, but alas it is not to be. Although, I don’t fancy being in town in the aftermath of said match – win or lose – because there’s always arseholes, and their quantity increases the further into a tournament we go.
I’m not fussed if it comes home or not.
Obviously, if it does, it’ll then be time to plan as much avoidance of the inevitable country wide open-topped bus gubbins as is humanly possible…