I Need Sleeeeeep...

Just to show that I don't only think of the lighter things in life (Viggo Mortensen and sex) all the time, I've decided to write about a topic I feel (kind of) strongly about, especially since I haven't slept in about 47 hours. It's a miracle I can still type right.

Growing up in the suburbs of Toronto taught me many things. Mainly that the only thing worse than the suburbs are the people who actually like living in them. I also learned a lot about the lengths people would go to to make their lives interesting. Not that I blame them, but if anybody should be self-mutilating, it's the parents whose subjected to several hours of Chiodos after coming home from a hard day at work (they work at an insurance firm. Everyone works at an insurance firm because it's the suburbs.)

Anyways, where I lived, all the cool kids had therapists. You needed either an acronym disorder (ADD, OCD, ADHD, etc, but you could fake it), a rough family life (again this was the suburbs, so nobody's parents actually beat them. They were just "so, like... shallow and stuff.") or an atrocious taste in music to make it in The Island.

Personally, I got the short end of the stick disorder-wise. I had/have dyspraxia, which isn't as cool as it sounds (and that's saying a lot because it doesn't sound cool at all.) It just meant I fell down a lot, couldn't do sports very well and had really bad handwriting. Instead of a therapist, I got a speech therapist (which incidentally isn't very high up on the social ladder), and a psychiatrist. 4 years, and all they'd told me is that I'm mature which I know for a fact is shit. I've woken up up in a velour cat suit and a tye-dye training bra ("Gollum as a Prostitute" in the catalogue) more times than I can count (after a few stiff drinks.) Needless to say, I'm not mature at all, so that was a waste of a lot of time and money but hey, it got me out of math.

What I'm trying to say is, if generally being clumsy and bad penmanship is a disorder, then we're all fucked. The only problem I ever had was the injuries sustained from falling down a lot, and the painkillers that followed. But eventually, they're going to find a "cure" for this involving pills and seratonin and brain changing things. Call me paranoid, but they're going to take over the world via Ritalin or something and everything's going end in a haze of 1984, Cat's Cradle, Horror-sci-fi, and Stanley Kubrick movies (not Lolita, I liked that one). Or maybe communism. I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore.
Shit, insomnia makes me sound like a Scientologist.

What an Outrage!

Frankly, Sweden were robbed. That is all there is to it, and yes Larsson's Codpiece was out for its annual scraping and of course than man in the shop supported Spain, and yes, he will be lynched by my hordes.

Take all that aside though, and just imagine if we'd claimed that point. Picking Sweden was very much like picking Minardi, Eddie the Eagle or Plymouth Argyle. I chose the plucky underdog.. and everyone loves an underdog with the possible exception of Jean Todt.

That one point would have thrown the group wide open and left Adam in line for a severe but fair cock-slapping from my good self. I'm not concerned though, after all its Spain and sooner or later something will make them fuck it all up, its inevitable.

Perhaps Fernando Torres' donkey will escape, or David Villa will get distracted by his spouse, and end up having a blazing pitchside row, which involves alot of arm expression, slapping and speaking unnaturally fast or maybe someone will play their national anthem - "The Mexican Hat Dance" - and they will all have to take siesta and sleep in deck chairs with straw hats over their eyes in respect. Either way, it will happen.

I've already started on a lego voodoo doll of David Villa, and if it works, he'll soon find himself nothing but a mere puddle, inside my microwave.

For now though, I turn my attention to the Russians, who have sobered up long enough to beat Greece. I consider them a threat, in the same way Ravi considers a Smorgasbord a Sandwich. I don't. Sure, as a Rangers fan, I kicked a few heads in after Zenit St. Petersburg, and learned the Russians are not to be underestimated after the met England in qualifying.

However, we must look at the facts. This is a team who spent 75 years queueing for a loaf of bread and some vinegar under communism, are they really going to have the energy left to beat Sweden? They will probably be distracted by all the Mafia hits they have to complete whilst there, the spying and the hunting reindeer for the harsh winters. The only real incentive to win is to avoid serving their remaining years in a Siberian Gulag.. which is just what happend to Dmitri Kharine. His crazy love of all things western; Money, Girls, Disco, Lack of police beatings, Freedom of speech, No chechen rebels and more money, meant he was never the Premier's favourite bloke really.

Guus Hiddink, a man with unlikely hair and a head shaped like Chippolata, encourages his players to swear in training and to joke about each others clubs. It isn't Sweden thats a stoned Dutch media studies project, its the Russian national football team.

They are shakier at the back than a Parkinson's sufferer operating a pneumatic drill and the Berezutsky twins are frankly the worst headers of the ball in the World today.

Freddie Ljungberg will use his dazzling looks to distract Aleksandr Anyukov, who I suspect holds a subscription to "Big boys in boots" magazine, Larsson will distract older team members by complaining, comparing ailments, sharing stories that don't go anywhere and misleading them into believeing its Pension day and they should be queueing in the post office, and Ibrahimovic, fresh from his acupuncture session, will use his newly realigned chakras to boot it home. Simple.

Bring it on I say.