Thin. So Thin That Were It A Hair, It Would Be George Roper’s

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The sooner the World Cup is over the better.

Understand this,  I love football, but so far I’ve spent the last week or whatever it’s been watching brightly coloured skint people dancing up and down blowing into trumpets on a loop. I’m feeling drained and fatigued and we’re not out the Group stages.

I feel like I guess porn movie producers must. I’m so desensitized to what I’m what I’m watching that no matter what plays out before me, nothing raises an eyebrow or very much else for that matter. Portugal’s goals were largely brilliant, but it was a game I had bailed on. Oh Jesus, release me.

John Terry held an insurrection. Oh no he didn’t. He went for ice cream. Nobody knows anything and they’re making stuff up that they cannot be sued for. A festival of football and information has never been so thin on the ground.

The stadiums are gradually getting fuller and without fear of being labeled a racist the sooner the host nation and and few others are gone the sooner we might. just might hear people singing and cheering or yawning or something or anything other than those fecking stupid vuvuzela bollocky things.

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