I’m trying to work out how much I like football. I’ve been watching an inordinate amount of it just lately. In fact, I’ve watched every match, except for the ones that were on while I’m at work- Oh and Switzerland v Ukraine. There’s being enthusiastic about football and then there’s being a glutton for monotony. I’ve been suitably entertained and diverted for a large portion of them. I have also been quite exasperatingly indifferent the rest of the time.

There are a number of elements to consider when reviewing what makes a match enjoyable for me:

1. The number of goals.
I like to make infuriating little squeaking noises when the ball gets within 30 yards of either goal.

2. The number of sendings-off.
Especially for dissent. I do like an altercation or two. Head butting, calling the other player’s/referee’s wife/mother/pet a whore. It’s all good.


3. The number of dives.
Not because I condone dishonest and fraudulent behaviour in any way at all, that would be unthinkable, but because we all like to hate Argentineans (football wise, I’m not a xenophobe) and let’s face it, it’s they’re the Lords of the dive. (Dive, dive, wherever you may be….) Being angry is fun.

4. The number of actual injuries.
Again, I don’t want to make it sound like I have a desire for Players to actually get hurt. Well, not too badly anyway, but it does make for good watching, The commentator’s remarks (see later) are always interesting at these points too.


5. The amount of gabble spouted by commentators and pundits alike.
Tell you what, I’ve written a lot of blog entries in my time but this just might be the best blog I’ve written about football in the history of blogging and the game, at the end of the day. It’s not all about original grammar and clichés. Some of it is just plain ridiculous. I turn your attention to the following site about one such individual who, although somewhat disgraced of late, stands out as a paradigm of language inventiveness.

http://dangerhere.com/ronglish/

I’ve been learning to speak football gibberish- observe:

“Well, he’s given it the little eyebrows full gun and it’s glanced off the second post and it’s gone straight in the back of the onion net, putting England up one nil, early doors. I’m telling you, they’re playing for fun!”


6. Whether Gary Lineker in presenting or the inferior blonde Gabby woman on ITV.
Gary Lineker, Alan Hanson, Alan Shearer and Ian Wright all sat in a row. What more could a girl, or a man, for that matter, wish for?

If we could come up with some sort of mathematical scoring system based on these elements, we could work out whether I will enjoy a match with almost pinpoint accuracy. What the reason for this would be is anyone’s guess but it is almost certainly fundamental for future of mankind. Of course, if England are playing it makes it exhilarating, whatever happens. So much so that I’ve been in danger of having to go upstairs and hide under the duvet until it’s all over. So, what do you think, do I like football or not? I know the offside rule, if that helps.

Since I don't have enough time to write properly, here is a poem generated from the content of the site, made by some generator thing.

Any pets immensely and I
had people to simultaneously
write a shiny black Toyota Corolla to face quite so
the procedure has been signed off
because
I find I felt
that
despite only 4 people to this
is a
good television but
that they threw rocks and the summer months.
In abundance. There are the
illogical and exasperating. It will now, here
I am on any upset
worried about
to town and clean
everything they have a
whining No hot cars and
my education
I expect to parliament.
Let's face
quite a charming young creature by the
other innocent bystander.

It's better than my actual poetry.

There are some upsides to this malarkey.

Currently, my year 12 Media group are studying film genre. The specific genre that they are studying is Science Fiction. This means I can legitimately put on any Science Fiction film I like and then discuss it with them. I get paid for this.

I do this quite a lot in my spare time. Only last weekend I got into a fairly intense discussion with some fellow pub-goers about the relative merits of two such films. I became so irate when some of the people involved, who appeared to be of sound mind and under no hallucinogenic influences, claimed that they could enjoy the film ‘Face Off’ because it clearly suspended the audiences disbelief in a sophisticated fashion.

My problems with this are manifest. Firstly, the idea that detaching someone’s face, transplanting onto someone else’s using a plastic template thing to make sure the structure is the same, and then assuming that no one would notice the exchange, the faces would be entirely unblemished, the recovery time would be non-existent, there would be no visible scarring, no infection from an alien plastic device being shoved between flesh and bone, nothing, in fact, to suggest the procedure has taken place, is utterly preposterous and downright insulting. Excuse the length of my sentences. (I allow that this is supposed to be some new-fangled technique but the rest of the film is not overly futuristic and none of this is given an explanation.)

Secondly, even granting the illogical and absurd pretence, are the film- makers really trying to tell me that, despite having widely different physiques, voices, hairlines and any number of other distinguishable features unique to the actors in question, the characters’ nearest and dearest seem completely oblivious to the alterations? John Travolta is 6”2 and was born in 1954. Nic Cage claims to be 6”0 and was born in 1964 (although it is said that he wears high-heals to make himself look taller.)

There is a scene in the film when John Travolta (who is actually Nic Cage with Johnny’s face) quite obviously comes on to his teenage daughter (not really his daughter, you understand, the real Johnny’s daughter) The deluded girl suspects that her Daddy is acting a little odd and we cannot blame her for being confused because the man is question quite evidently has her Father’s voice, torso and appendages, as well as his face.

My one piece of praise is that the acting may have been ok, if I hadn’t been thoroughly livid the whole time I was watching it. Utter gibberish from beginning to end. The only thing suspended during that piece of cinematic claptrap was the Director’s senses.

The other film we discussed was ‘X-Men The Last Stand’ and I don’t care what you comic boys say! Even if Juggernaut isn’t supposed to be a mutant or Rogue’s character is entirely out of keeping with her comic namesake, I liked it. (Although The Rock ( You smell what he’s cooking) needed to be aforementioned Juggernaut, not the ridiculously inept Vinnie Jones)

‘Walking Tall’…now there’s a film.

What do you do when, as an adult, you are subjected to the most unreasonable discrimination and ill treatment? What are you supposed to when, day after day, it becomes entirely evident that nothing you can do satisfies, no matter how relentlessly you struggle to impress, or merely to escape the browbeating and chastisement for a few unblemished hours?

At school, I was always a good girl. A little lazy at times, perhaps, but I always got done what needed to be done. I was polite and punctual. At times, earlier on in my education I was desperately unhappy, and I had reason for resenting fellow students and teachers alike, but I never really felt that spiteful. So why do I feel so hard done by now?

If I were at school, I’d tell my mum. She and, no doubt my Nan, would storm down to the school in a blaze of matriarchal umbrage, safe in the knowledge that their angelic daughter/granddaughter could do no wrong. I was never one to stand up for myself very much. I had people to do that for me and it only causes problems anyway, doesn’t it?

I begin to wonder whether the uncomfortable position I find myself in isn’t much worse than any upset I may cause by springing into action. The belief keeps tearing through my thoughts- “I don’t bloody deserve this. I don’t. I really, really don’t. I know my shortcomings you have no right to make me feel this way.”

When I was 12, I was standing at a bus stop when two lads, several years older than I, decided to cover me in a veil of phlegm and spittle so extensive that I was forced to run home, in tears, where my distraught mother, called the police. The culprits were given formal cautions and curfews and the parents had to pay for the cleaning bill. Later that week, a group of boys aged about 14-18, in large and threatening gangs, gathered outside my house. They were angry because their friends couldn’t come out - no doubt to terrorize some other innocent bystander. They threw rocks and eggs at my house, causing my baby sister to scream and my dad to go out on some sort of vengeance mission, vowing to kill them all.

I felt frightened, yes. I was upset, worried about my family and even guilty that they should have to suffer like that on my account. But mostly what I felt was the overwhelming unfairness of it all. The complete and utter lack of justice was tangible to me.

How could people possibly make others feel this way? I would find it impossible. How can you make somebody else feel worthless and still sleep at night, let alone take active pleasure from it, as I suspect the aforementioned boys did? I comforted myself with the fact that they were children, or near enough so. I reassured myself with the fact that they were ignorant, unaware, and unlikely to face a future as bright as I would make sure mine was.

And now here I am and I have that exact same feeling. But the people I face aren’t young or uninformed. They don’t have deprived backgrounds. They have no reason to feel jealous or resentful of anyone. They are cultured and knowledgeable professionals. They have absolutely no reason to deride and condemn someone to the point that they feel as if everything they do is utterly without value. Make no mistake- I expect to be given suggestions and assistance in becoming better than I am. I would be miffed if all I had was indifference but that is not what this is.

It is bullying- and I find I am stunned that it exists away from the playground.

I love the summer. Even in baking classrooms, when all the windows are open and it’s still stifling. Even when the incessant buzz of fans, blades creaking with the effort of their perpetual gyrating, is only interrupted by the whinging of sun stroked children. Even when the first twenty minutes of the lesson is taken up by tag team water collection- I adore every minute of it.

Of course, I would rather not be at work at all. I’d rather be in a beer garden somewhere, iced beverage in hand, soaking up the damaging and unremitting rays of the sun, big screen in front of me and football about to begin. I’d rather be at my parents' house, dividing my time between lounging on the decking and nipping into the lounge, cool and sheltered from the heat by the barrier of the thatch, to flick the TV onto the constant coverage of BB that E4 provides.

Even thunderstorms are tremendous. I want to wake up to unexpected coolness in the middle of the night, to find rainwater splashing up from the sills of open windows and thunder rumbling in the distance. I want to experience how fresh and clean everything feels afterwards.

I would be happy back in Worcester, at my favourite bar by the riverside, cool breeze on my face and Southern Comfort and ginger beer in my hand, chatting and laughing and drinking- things essential to the summer months. In fact I want to have a motion passed. If the temperature reaches 26 degrees from June onwards, or if it is a world cup year, regardless of temperature, all school should be suspended and all non essential workplaces closed down. We should all congregate in the great green spaces and pub gardens of this land, sunhats and factor 20 in hand, with sandwiches to share, cool drinks and strawberries and ice cream in abundance. There should be music and football and cheering and gaiety and bliss.

No marking. No whining. No hot cars and motorways and sticky backs in breezeless rooms. No worries until September. We can make it happen. Let’s march to parliament. Let’s all go on strike. We can make it happen!

Who is with me?

The poor, much lamented Gadfly. May the big, traffic free motorway in the sky be brightened by her manifold emerald loveliness. I was minding my own business, driving along a fairly busy country road near the village of Badgeworth, between Cheltenham and Gloucester, when the car in front stopped somewhat unexpectedly. I, being the vigilant and proficient driver you all know and love, stopped in plenty of time. (Only a fool breaks the two-second rule and all that jazz)

I had the briefest of moments to gather my wits and think “Oh, I had to stop quite quickly then; It was lucky I didn’t crash” when a massive Nissan Four by Four thing rammed the unsuspecting and innocent Gadfly right in the rear, smashing the windscreen and, to some extent, the back wheels, into oblivion.

Needless to say, I was taken aback. Being that it wasn’t my fault, I have a brand new hire car to drive for the moment. It has a CD player. How new-fangled.

I am quite happy, though. The Emerald Gadfly will be much missed but I have come out of it unscathed and with a shiny black Toyota Corolla to play with for a few weeks.

All very exciting, eh?

I am in hiding. I am also trying to simultaneously write my yr 7 reports so if I slip into “ Sam constantly distracts others and allows himself to be distracted…” you’ll know why. I am hiding because I am a prisoner in my own workplace. I’m having bad dreams because of it! Although, I do suspect that this, in point of fact, was due to the vast amounts of crap I consumed at the weekend: a bottle of Southern Comfort in under 4 hours, Pringles, parsnip crisps, mini savoury eggs, cocktail sausages, garlic mushrooms, Chinese finger food selection, potato skins, 3 types of cheese in salad starter and a carbonara sauce, a further 2 types of cheese and several tonnes of cream in a butterscotch and mascapone cake thing….. it goes on.

The reason for all this being, of course, because I had a party on Friday and dinner guests on Saturday. The results were mixed. My party was great fun; I drank whole of aforementioned contentment of the southern persuasion, we went on to town and don’t remember returning home. However, only 4 people turned up. It’s quality not quantity, I tells ya! Also, I feel some of the guests may have been disturbed by the amount of Star Wars memorabilia in the lounging area.

A good friend, who was once from back in sunny Colchester, came to visit. We dined on a spectacular (even if I do say so myself) meal created by me and the other half. The long-awaited guests in question brought a charming young creature by the name of Vinnie, who is, in truth, some sort of Jack Russell. I enjoy almost any pets immensely and even though my joint tenant dislikes canines and all their doggy kind, (“Help, help, he putting his filthy dog hands all over me!) the rest of us had great fun watching him get vexed and bally-ragged to within an inch of his life.

I am on a diet now. I’m drinking bottled water at school. This is mostly due to the bastard government banning fizzy drinks at schools, rather than an attempt at purifying my overwhelmed and poisoned body but there you go. Anyway, one last request before I go:

I demand that everybody comments! I’m going to send an email and texts saying so! It is so hard to stay in touch with everyone without a chatting function and this is nearly the same thing- just delayed a bit. Get to it, I say!

I'm back at school so the unbearable gap in communications will cease almost immediately. I am going to have to write at home and paste from now on because I am under constant and relentless surveillance. I have lots to talk about in regards to all of my half term shenanigans- A house party with very few guests etc- but it will have to wait.