Worried that if I spent one more hour watching TV in my parents’ basement I would literally crawl out of my skin, which would be disturbing to say the least, and not a little painful, I hied myself to the Ship and Anchor this afternoon to watch the England match. The Ship and Anchor is a truly exemplary pub and was familiar territory in my own personal Dark Ages (instead of plagues and religious persecution insert mighty bouts of drinking and indiscriminate shagging) (come to think of it, it’s lucky I avoided plagues and persecution). I’ve already run into several old associates at the Ship this past week, including a former classmate whom I undoubtedly impressed by getting his name completely wrong (“Hi Robin!” “Dude! Daniel!” “Er…no…”).
ANYWAY, today the Ship was a comforting sea of red-and-white shirts, and upon meekly requisitioning a chair at the bar I was summarily adopted by a lovely gay couple who had recently lived in London for a few months. The less athletically-minded of the two, who was (quietly) cheering for Sweden because the players were cuter (hard to argue with that), regaled me with tales of a Danish ex-boyfriend with a fourteen-inch cock (“I’m usually only a top, but I took him on just for the sheer challenge of it”); but I drew an audible gasp when I countered that I’d managed to snare an Englishman with really good teeth. (No wonder I married him.)
And England…ah, England. At least they’ve started playing like a team instead of like a gang of anaesthetised lobotomy patients wandering around the pitch; and hey, after not beating a team for 38 years, why break the streak? At least they’re through.