While conducting my research on this football lark, I came across several “Lists of Rules for Girls During the World Cup”. Horrible, offensive articles. Awful things. Terrible things, suggesting that we are not to speak to our boyfriends or husbands for the duration of the upcoming month; that we’re to be at their beck and call to pour beer and cook pizza during all the games, and that we should approach the TV remote at our own peril. In fact, us women have been advised that we must stoop down onto all fours and crawl across the floor should we ever need to pass by the television, because God forbid we obstruct his view for 0.2 seconds. (My personal recommendation, should the man in your life insist you perform this crude act, is that while crawling across the floor you bark like a German Shepherd – loudly – thus ensuring you destroy his viewing pleasure in a way he wasn’t expecting. Plus you have the added bonus of vexing him further by being something German. Men hate the Germans during the World Cup).
It’s ironic, really, that I need to spend my time researching the World Cup in order to write about how uninterested I am in the whole thing, but honestly, I wouldn’t have known that Theo Walnut existed had I not checked Sky Sports. I wouldn’t have known that I should avoid setting foot outside the comfort of my bedroom on Saturday because that’s when England play their first game. And it’s quite important that I’m up-to-date on the latest, to ensure that I’m well equipped to moan about it.
I suppose the benefit of having sat in front of a computer for hours, reading all about how us women are banned from giving birth during the World Cup because it would mean the men in our life are obligated to pay us some minor attention, is that I’ve realised us girls really ought to stick up for ourselves here! Many of us have resigned ourselves to the fact that we haven’t got a say in what we watch on TV over the next month, and some of us will even obey a number of the rules that have been made for us… but we really ought to get in the game (excuse the pun) and make some demands of our own. Fair’s fair.
Dear boyfriend / husband / partner / significant other / flatmate / bane of my- life / chore of a person… (delete as applicable),
1. Between the 11th of June and 11th of July 2010, I understand that you will be wasting your life away watching grown men run around a patch of grass while they kick a ball at each others’ heads. Do not accuse me of being unsupportive or disloyal when I jet off on a singles holiday to Spain and come home on the 12th of July (without any duty-free).
2. If I mock you for crying when your favourite player falls over and his shin-bone pops out through his skin, it’s only because I love you. I know you’re in pain (more pain than the player himself, of course) and I’m merely trying to lighten the mood. If you huff and puff at me about this afterwards, I will accidentally pour lemonade into the television.
3. If I get bored and decide to invite the girls over for cocktails and manicures while you and your mates are surgically attached to the sofa, you will forgive me when I ban you all from the bathroom. If the lounge is yours, the bathroom is ours. There’s a packet of Pampers in the cupboard under the stairs should the situation become desperate.
4. All that time you spend shouting, burping, punching the air, farting, sulking and jumping up and down on the sofa during each game makes you very unattractive to me. It’s worth bearing in mind that I’m likely to suggest a trial separation just before the World Cup starts, and I’ll spend the following month frolicking in a meadow with a tall, French, curly-haired, athletic-built, charming, guitar-playing, polite poet instead. You and I will reconcile our differences on the 12th of July.
5. The more you boss me around, trying to force me into fetching your drinks and nibbles, the more likely I am to serve you a glass of mayonnaise and a plate of pickled mushrooms. I’ll be nice to you for the first England game (beer, McDonalds, whatever), but the novelty will soon wear off and you will be poisoned. Consider yourself warned.
6. If at any point you notice that I’m taking a glance at the TV screen while you’re watching a game, please do not assume that I am at all interested in the match. Do not celebrate or say anything ridiculous, like “So you’re finally getting into football! I knew you couldn’t resist it for long! We can have the guys over every night this week and you wont complain, blah, blah, etc…” – I’m simply admiring Joe Cole’s legs. Now shut up and stop distracting me.
7. If you decide to spend every waking moment of the upcoming month sat in the local sports bar and refusing to pull your weight at home, do not be surprised if I move my mother in to help around the house. And if you dare suggest that she’s the mother-in-law from hell just because she’s an alcoholic, bipolar narcissist, I will change the locks. I love my mum and she has every right to moan at you about the dirty nappies you’ve left in the bathroom.
8. Every time you throw me an evil glare when I approach the TV remote, or have a tantrum because there’s no beer left in the fridge, I have every right to storm out of the house, slam the door behind me, and take your Amex card to Harrods. This isn’t necessarily out of spite; it’s more a favour to you – by the time I finish there will be enough accrued air-miles to get us both (and the kids) to the 2014 World Cup in Brazil. (Rule contributed by Nicola Rabson – thank you!)
9. I never moan at you when you refuse to sit and watch The X Factor with me. I leave you to sulk in the other room and I watch it anyway, much in the same way you have treated me throughout every football tournament over the years. Therefore, you are beyond clinically deranged if you think I’m going to take you seriously when you complain that we haven’t spent any “quality time” together in a month. It was your decision to glue yourself to the sofa and therefore your doing entirely. If you even so much as glimpse at me with that look in your eye, I will cancel the Sky+ subscription and lock you in the shed.
10. Finally, darling, it’s probably only fair to tell you that due to the fact the TV was out of bounds to me for an entire month, I took it upon myself to record every episode of Big Brother that I missed. Once the World Cup has finished, I will be watching every one of these episodes back-to-back. It will be your duty to top up my wine glass and cook for me every evening until I’m up-to-date. If you object to this for any reason or refuse to oblige me, I hear the Holiday Inn is quite cheap. I’ll pack your bags for you.
That ought to do it.
Written by Kate Spalding.
To contact Kate, email: kate.spalding@estateagenttoday.co.uk.
For those of you who are utterly disgraced by Kate’s clear lack of support for our team, head on over to Toby’s column for the proper World Cup news.
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