nunoncastors

I’ve now sat through more dreary, half-arsed international football matches than I care to remember, hours of my life have been stolen away by people who, on the surface of it, don’t want to be on the pitch living the dream.

I’m sure they’d assure me otherwise but really, having watched yet another dismal performance, I suspect even they no longer believe their own platitudes. I sat down on Wednesday evening with a group of friends and expected to see – well, effort; because when you’re representing your country you’re supposed to be filled with national pride and respond accordingly. You’re supposed to realise that every single man watching you dreams of trading places and raise your game. You’re not supposed to wander about as though you’ve never seen a ball in your life and repeatedly pass to the other team.

What we were treated to was the sight of disinterested millionaires milling about, playing long balls and doing precious little else. It’s not as though I have unrealistic expectations of the national team, I don’t expect them to win every game, I just expect them to try to win every game rather than amble about like a shower of arseholes.

Some will doubtless think it ridiculous to question our footballer’s commitment to the national team, that it’s blasphemy to impugn their desire to win. Of course they view it as an honour, they’re proud to be wearing the shirt. I just think it’d be nice if they played like it, that’s not too much to ask is it?

On a side (and related) note, I’ve actually rather gone off top flight football altogether. I used to really enjoy watching footballers plying their trade but, of late, there’s something that really grates about watching men with more money than sense diving, whining, cheating and conniving. It’s a contact sport; people should either get used to it or stop playing. Simple.

Christ knows what Christiano “goes-down-as-though-someone’s-thrown-acid-in-his-face” Ronaldo would do if he ever came up against someone who tackles like Julian Dicks. Go down clawing at his eyes as usual probably, at least he’d have reason to.

Then you get to hear them moaning about their wages, “I only get fifty-five grand a week, wah-wah-wah.” My heart fucking bleeds.

I think this season’s going to be my last. Still, there’s always Notts County. At least I expect them to be dire.