Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

Monday, July 03, 2006

Jack's rival blog and the real reason for the World Cup debacle

So, a young pretender has emerged: baby Jack has produced his first blog. Not bad for a first effort, either, though I suspect he had some help from him mum Nx, whereas mine is at least all my own work. To paraphrase Capote’s summary of Kerouac’s prose: that’s not writing, it’s typing; I compose this, S just types it up. He lacks the imagination to do more.

Besides, Jack looks like a cross between a sober Charles Kennedy and a slightly less psychotic Wayne Rooney. He’s not even house-trained!

That’s a sore subject with me right now: had a wee sample taken ignominiously this morning, which S left at the vet’s on his way to work. The vet rang later in the day to say that I seem to have a problem, and I have to go for X rays on Weds. I’ve had this problem for a while now, and it’s most undignified. S and G are worried for me, but I think the antibiotics they say they’ll give me will clear it up. I go into prison at the end of the week so S and G can go to Crete for a week. Typical. No-one thinks of the dog.

S has been dead grumpy since Sat. when England went out of the World Cup. Every time it comes round he seems to think they’ll have learnt to take penalties, pass the ball to one of their own players and not to the opposition, sometimes beat an opponent by using skill, athleticism and ingenuity, etc. Then we produce our usual performance of inept underachievement. I think it’s because there aren’t enough English players in our top clubs, but S rebukes me for this and says it’s recidivist or racist or something. Nonetheless we still can’t string two passes together. France has Zidane, Brazil had Ronaldinho (S thinks he was smuggled out before the competition and replaced by a cyborg) and who do we have? Peter Crouch. He is to football what praying mantises are to philosophy.

Is that the plural of mantis? Mantes?

He’s been poring over the papers since our exit, alternating in his vituperation between the manager, the opportunist Swede-the-greed, with his huge salary and small invention; Rooney, with his Croxteth ethics, Beckham, with his fading genius, and the Tories, who he usually blames when anything goes tits-up. I feel it’s something to do with the pre-match microphone that broke when Becks was trying to read his anti-racism tract. It clearly freaked him out that the feedback could be heard in Antartica. The English players’ wags were less attractive than the other teams’ players’, too, and this surely undermined their confidence and self-esteem. In today’s Times there’s a picture of the Wimbledon players’ consorts: pure class. I rest my case. It’s nothing to do with tactics, and the relative merits of holding midfielders or the Lampard-Gerrard axis; it’s all down to looks. Look at me: the best-looking dog in the peninsula, if not the south-west of England. Everyone coming out of Sainsbury’s when S and I are outside waiting for G to finish reading Good Housekeeping in there on a Saturday says it: what a handsome dog! A winner. No self-doubt. I could even score a penalty if I put my mind to it – better than that pouting pretty-boy Madeira cake cheat who tried to get Rooney sectioned during the quarter-final. No wonder van Nistlerooy (is that how it’s spelt?) can’t abide him. Could be though that he’s better looking than Ruud the Mr Ed lookalike – which returns me to my earlier thesis.

Apart from the football it’s been hot and muggy here, so I sleep mostly. Bark at next door’s cat with the six toes… freak. Think of things to dream about. This might be my last blog until I’m released from kennels, so think of me in solitary, staring through the bars at the light. Pining.