Saturday 19 June 2010

I am seriously thinking about changing my nationality.

The performance of the England football team in last night's World Cup match against Algeria was pitifully embarrassing.  As before, my partner and I went to the local pub to watch the game and, as far as we are concerned, Rooney et al owe us the price of our drinks and compensation for the squandered ninety minutes of our lives.

I just don't know what is wrong with them.  It is pathetic - and this is supposed to be the best that England has?  Bring back Beckham is all I can bark.  The only reason for the appalling performance that I can think of is that these footballers have so much money tied up in contracts for modelling clothes, grooming products, etc., that they are literally terrified of playing a quality game in case they suffer any injury that could leave them with a visible scar.

My partner and I left the pub in angry disgust as soon as the final whistle blew.

On arriving home, there was a policeman at the entrance to the cul-de-sac next to ours (which we have to drive past to reach our house).  That cul-de-sac is entirely occupied by ne'er-do-wells, largely from the same family.  Hardly a day passes in which we do not thank all the powers that be for the fact that we weren't offered a house in that bit of the street.  Apparently a World Cup gathering in one of the p*key ( My apologies.  No slight against the Romani race intended - I have respect for them - my near neighbours are not Romanis, just ASBO-chasing wretches.) households had got massively out of paw.  The situation deteriorated further, resulting in a police van, sirens screaming, hurtling into my road.  What charming and dignified behaviour.

And barking of things that got massively out of paw - take a look at this:

My partner found some stage make-up in a box.  For goodness' sake.  I look like a bl**dy donkey.

Much admiration was expressed in the pub, and I enjoyed the attention.  It was on returning to the house, just mere moments after the above picture was taken, that the situation swiftly deteriorated.

Ushering me into the bathroom, my partner drew down from a shelf a packet of moist baby-wipes and began to cleanse the decoration from my fur.  After enduring several minutes of increasingly fervent wiping, a feint whimper from my partner signalled that all had not gone entirely to plan.

The upshot is that I still have a St. George Cross across my ribcage and spine - only now it is bright fuchsia pink.

I am absolutely livid, I really am.  My partner has offered her apologies, but I am not minded to accept them at present.

I was too ashamed to sit in the garden today, lest one of the local cats spot me.  Starsky was loitering in his garden this afternoon, possibly hoping for a bit of a gossip (likely, given the high-volume antics in the next cul-de-sac the night before), but I hid behind the curtain and pretended to snore.

I'm just praying that Eddie doesn't see me.  I fear I would have too many awkward questions to answer, should his sardonic gaze alight upon the vast pink emblem that now adorns my upper body.

For goodness' sake.

More "Evolution" next time!

Good night.