Oh the English. We are a funny race, aren't we. I think, buried deep within us all, is still that 'little island' mentality, combined with an ancestral belief that we are still one of the superpowers of the Earth. Hence our complete disbelief at a) The current financial quagmire that we're all unwillingly wallowing in and b) England's performance in the World Cup so far.
But what about '66? I hear the masses cry indignantly. I shall spell this out only once, England. It. Was. 44. Years. Ago. Get it? Got it? Good. Winning it once in half a century does not mean we are entitled to presume we will thus win it every time from here on in. Plus, we had a decent team then, not the bunch of scuzzy cheating scumbags and arrogant petty berks that we have now (Suburban Mama speaking for the females of the population - Ashley Cole, how could you, to the lovely Cheryl! And as for the ultimate evil villain of the piece...oh John Terry, you monster!)
I love my husband's delusion in particular.
'We drew our first two games in '66 and went on to win it!' he states, with a measure of desperation in his eyes, nervously wringing his hands together like a worried old spinster.
Er...and that proves what, precisely? That, by some secret supernatural laws of football, the same will automatically happen this time? I even heard on the radio this morning, some poor bloke proclaiming that, because they were playing in their red strip today, they would win. As they've 'never lost' in their red strip. If this is the case, Capello surely is missing a (hat)trick by not having them in it permanently. Tut tut.
Anyway, I digress massively. It was just an observation about our 'great' Britain and our somewhat hilarious expectations. I myself do not care really. I have done in previous years. But not this one. The only thing I am enjoying is seeing the equally smug countries such as France, Germany, Italy and Spain, also playing like utter crap. I'm supporting Ghana. I like those boys. Come on Ghana!!
I am currently attempting to get D to sleep. D has decided, since mastering the subtle art of mobility, that he doesn't want to bother with sleep any more. He has also mastered the hilarious art of doing anything in his cot apart from chilling out and getting a bit of shut eye. We now get...1) Rolling over and over until he hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 2) Flipping on to his belly and crawling around until he falls over and hits his head on the bars, which results in tears. 3) Sitting up then being really tired and not knowing how to get down again, which results in tears and 4) standing up in his cot, falling over, which results in, yes, you guessed it, tears again.
So he's now in the pram, where he can't roll. Or sit up. Or stand up. And we've got more tears. Hence the fact that this post has taken me 40 minutes to write so far.
Oh! Silence! I think he's nodded off. Not meaning to sound like a harsh Suburban Mama...but phew! Looking after the new, improved, 0 to 60 in ten seconds D is hugely fun but doubly exhausting. Right, I'll enjoy this ten minute window then, before he's up again. Oh, did I forget to mention? Yes, I have one of those rare babies who actually doesn't really need sleep. Which explains why I am a very tired suburban mama.
Well, that was a record. Two minutes. He's awake. Sigh. Off I go...
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