World Cup Ramblings #5
Credit:
As the group stage morphs from phase two into phase three I can’t
decide whether things are speeding up or slowing down. On the one hand
we’ve lost the morning shift and for the coming week only the
afternoons and evenings will be filling our screens with World Cup
carry on. On the other hand overall output will increase from three
games a day to four.
Four games every day! Our glass is most definitely full and the only question hanging over us is to decide exactly how full it is. Personally, I lean towards it being ‘glutinously’ full. I feel like Augustus Gloop surveying the chocolate lake. To hell with those Oompah Loompahs, I’m going in!
My only reservation is that the new regime allows the real world a small window in which to reassert itself. I now have until two thirty in the afternoon to do those things that have, for the past eleven days, been blissfully impossible. “Mow the lawn? Are you mad? Holland are playing South Korea, it’s simply not a runner”.
Today, for instance, I rang a man about my blocked drain. It provided a glimpse of what lies ahead when the circus finally ends and a reminder that life isn’t always a bed of high definition, slow motion poses.
But for now we get to experience the simultaneous kick-offs which accompany the final group games. While watching one game we will have the opportunity to see it’s context being vitally interfered with by events elsewhere. It’s split-screen heaven and brings with it the giddying experience of us, the viewer, having more information than the players on the field. I suppose, when it comes down to it, it’s a power thing.
The coming four days will offer us our first real dose of the World Cup’s brutality. Sixteen teams will look up from the dust, panting with fatigue as, high up in the stands, the emperor twists his thumb downwards. Their last cogent memory will be the merciless howl of the crowd as their opponent delivers the final death blow. No more chances, you lose, go home. You could call it the Anne Robinson round.
First up for the chop are France and while I take a moment at the breakfast table to thank God for Thierry Henry (watching Les Bleus implode has been almost as much fun as if we’d been there ourselves) it strikes me that, as only the poets seem to have realised, death can sometimes be beautiful.
Four games every day! Our glass is most definitely full and the only question hanging over us is to decide exactly how full it is. Personally, I lean towards it being ‘glutinously’ full. I feel like Augustus Gloop surveying the chocolate lake. To hell with those Oompah Loompahs, I’m going in!
My only reservation is that the new regime allows the real world a small window in which to reassert itself. I now have until two thirty in the afternoon to do those things that have, for the past eleven days, been blissfully impossible. “Mow the lawn? Are you mad? Holland are playing South Korea, it’s simply not a runner”.
Today, for instance, I rang a man about my blocked drain. It provided a glimpse of what lies ahead when the circus finally ends and a reminder that life isn’t always a bed of high definition, slow motion poses.
But for now we get to experience the simultaneous kick-offs which accompany the final group games. While watching one game we will have the opportunity to see it’s context being vitally interfered with by events elsewhere. It’s split-screen heaven and brings with it the giddying experience of us, the viewer, having more information than the players on the field. I suppose, when it comes down to it, it’s a power thing.
The coming four days will offer us our first real dose of the World Cup’s brutality. Sixteen teams will look up from the dust, panting with fatigue as, high up in the stands, the emperor twists his thumb downwards. Their last cogent memory will be the merciless howl of the crowd as their opponent delivers the final death blow. No more chances, you lose, go home. You could call it the Anne Robinson round.
First up for the chop are France and while I take a moment at the breakfast table to thank God for Thierry Henry (watching Les Bleus implode has been almost as much fun as if we’d been there ourselves) it strikes me that, as only the poets seem to have realised, death can sometimes be beautiful.
About Simon O'Gorman
Simon O'Gorman began reporting for Extratime in 2010. He remembers Milltown and Flower Lodge and, back in the mists of time, saw Diego Maradona play at Lansdowne Road. He now lives in Co Kildare and … View Full Profile