Wore my Italia jersey to the racetrack today. Several authentic Italians nodded their approval as we made our way this way and that about the public areas. The East End has never backed the French except in the World Wars. Inside I suppressed laughter because I am as Italian as fish and chips with a side of mushy peas all chased down with a pint of warm bitter and a good birching.
Tomorrow my heart is with motherfucking Italy but my money is riding on the French bastards. May the best team win it before the dreaded penalty shoot out.
When I got home the Hammer greeted me at the back garden fence; her massive paws up on the rail like mine were earlier in the day. Sonja said the dog slept in the shade of our evergreens all day because I took her out for a good run this morning as the sun was rising above the thirsty trees.
Tonight I am on the welfare beer. Tomorrow it will be red wine and spaghetti or Liberty fries. I hope before I die English cuisine will be on the menu World Cup Sunday. That is because English cuisine is beer, you wine-happy motherfuckers.
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