Roll up for World Cup idiot bingo, where wealthy men get paid to sit in television studios talking absolute bollocks to each other live on air about even wealthier men chasing a ball around a field.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the World Cup. Ideally I’d watch every single match, even the crap ones from countries you had no idea played football, never mind had a national team.
Morocco v Iran? Bring it on. Teletubbyland v North Korea? I’m there, Doritos in one hand, Diet Coke in the other.
No thanks to the lady romcoms patronisingly counter-programmed to cheer up so-called football widows every four years; I’d rather watch Qatar v Mongolia than anything with Jennifer Aniston being hot but vulnerable with swishy hair.
No, the only hair I want to see is the ultra-processed situation currently perched on Neymar’s head. Or Boateng’s mauve sculpture.
The identical beards of the Tunisian team. All the tattoos, the razored tonsorial zig-zags, the waxed eyebrows, the prodigious misuse of bleach.
The fact every player looks like he has been styled by hipster central casting, despite the hipster thing being long dead.
Footballers have never been fashion forward.
How I adore the slapstick roly-poly, the comedy agony, the am-dram, the man-panto of modern football — millionaires hurling themselves to the floor, faces grimaced in anguish, gurning and writhing, because someone touched their shoulder, snagged their bootlace, breathed on their hair gel.
The pushy shovey huffy stuff, the cartoon rage.
The diving, the checking for non-existant blood (yes, Ronaldo), the Jesus-on-water levels of miraculous recovery after an entire medical team has rushed on the pitch with a stretcher only for the suspected catastrophic spinal injury to get up and walk bravely away.
Where else, without going to the actual theatre, would you get this quality of entertainment? This level of comedy?
Not to mention the intervals of sublime, soaring, breath-taking, beautiful football. I love it. I absolutely flipping love it.
Yet as a bra-wearer, I’m supposed to prefer watching people like Sarah Jessica Parker failing the Bechdel test while wearing improbable shoes, rather than this month-long magnificent, absurd display of masculinity. No way.
No, it’s the pundits, not the footballers, who are truly ridiculous.
Just because someone once played a great game with their feet does not mean they should be allowed to describe things in public with their mouth. At the end of the day.
There is, however, a solution.
Whether it’s El Clasico or a bunch of plodding donkeys ploughing frozen tundra, idiot punditry can be overcome by watching the game in a foreign language.
That way you get all the excitement (GOAAAALLLL!!) without understanding a single inane syllable.
Genius. You’re welcome.