Totally Unwell

Drinking Furftenberg Weizen Hefe Hell Weiss Bier has left me contemplating great World Cup Haircuts. After yesterdays Angolan horrorfest I strolled back down memory lane to the greatest haircut ever to grace the World Cup Stage. Leonardo Cuellar c/o Mexico 1978.

Even Loco, the ever willing right back for Angola can't beat that. Judge for yourself?

Tomorrow I look for the World Cups Ugliest Footballers Past and Present, and contrast them against Coppull's ugliest inhabitants.

If you can visualise anyone who might fall into either camp, leave a comment.

Also to see all posts click on the Archive Section to the Left. Haven't quite figured out how the whole thing works yet.

The "filthy, cheating Eye-ties" played a better than expected game against Ghana, and didn't have to particularly cheat or be filthy. The question does remain however. Why do Ghana not play Pimpong?

The World Cup is playing havoc with eating schedules. Hence my combined meals today are:

Breakfast: Bacon & Lentil Soup
Dinner: Cod (some kind of boil in the bag affair with butter sauce) & 3 waffles
Tea: 2 Corn on the Cobs.

Will stock up on more mussel meat tomorrow. I will also need to stop wildlife entering my room in the dead of night.

The largest nostrils I have so far spotted in the World Cup presided over a pretty terrible performance by the U. S of A. Bruce Arena is a Man amongst Nasal Passages. Not a bad game for those who have a bit of Czech in them (as I have today, as I have consumed several bottles of Staropramen). What is becoming apparant however, is the complete need for the TV's mute button on the BBC's coverage. Especially their lamentable punditry - with potato head Alan Shearer being especially deplorable and vomit inducing. Bring back the "deliberating" Garth Crooks.

On ITV, fellow spud head, Clive Tyldesley was enjoying the company of 'witty' Gareth Southgate by emphasising every touch by Takashi Fukunishi, and then laughing like a small boy.

For Everton fans everywhere. As is life, a decent Everton player has taken it upon himself to have a good tournament. Two match winning goals will inevitably see the player move, under the headlines "I realise I can do it on a bigger stage, therefore I have handed in my transfer request."

Why is it that Phil Neville won't perform well in front of a worldwide audience?

The bug which is sweeping through the Phillips house like a particularly energetic Ronaldinho, has left the two elders asleep at 4.00. With no mash forthcoming I will endeavour to requisition some chargrilled delights from my friends at Venice.

Seems like the good weather has finally come to pass. At least I won't feel guilty for sitting in front of the "World Cup Display Unit", knowing that the sun is out. It might change this afternoon?

Monday Morning, nursing a slight nausea built around Hoegaarden (lots of), Mussel Meat (lots of) and Water (lack of). Also the kids have now arrived, and as is their wont, screaming, crying and general nuisance making has been pretty much the standard since 7.30.

This has left with me no option but to shave my head, and organise the brews I will drink today in preparation for games 9,10 and 11. I will also attempt some "special" World Cup Jambon later. Hmmmm.

Even when not at work Sophie Robinson can make me shake my head!

The reason for the delay in posts was this day and this day alone. England v Paraguay, and the day when all reason went out of not just my window, but the collective 'window' (probably best described as the collective Patio Doors). Arrived at the pub at 11.15 for a Breakfast Burger and 'worrying' pint of Kronenbourg - and amused ourselves with the myriad of grown men who seemed to have found their wives make up bags' and drunkenly decorated their faces with the St. George's cross.

It became obvious as soon as we got to Harry's Bar that things were going to get hot....very hot. A cue of 100 had formed outside, waiting for opening time. The local Spar was doing a roaring trade selling cans to the assortment of revellers waiting, and in typical fashion as soon as we got our cans the doors opened.

The heat inside was absolutely horrendous, and it became apparant that if we were to survive we would have to 'ponce' away from the big screen and stand by the open fire escape. Probably a good idea as the game was deadly dull, and the chav clientele had taken to removing their ubiquitous England Tops and rotating them around their "Beckham Coiffured" heads. To be fair this was cooling us 'older' types off quite nicely.

Escaped back to Coppull and the more serene environment of Chez Woodcock. I say serene, but the continued bouts of man wrestling in the afternoon sun was probably not a good idea (both in terms of dehydration, and blood loss - which I discovered on my inner thigh the following morning).

It later transpired that "our" Adrian as he is colloquially known started getting a touch, of what can only be described as the trots. From what he has later confessed, he was very nearly on the verge of "Crete Ass". Which for those who know means the otter was going to become very silky, very fast. This is the official reason for his disappearance.

Can't remember too much more of the day, apart from playing football on a ploughed field, and bogling the young "ghetto" kid in the "pimp mobile" outside The Printers. Ramshank indeed.

Well that's what happened with one Ernest J. Phillips, who started the World Cup on Friday night by hitting a sweet volley in the back garden and knocking his wine over.

The first spillage of what I anticipate to be a month or so of spillages (and volleys). Friday started with a selection of wheat beers in varying colours, and also a BBQ that took 'slightly longer' to cook than anticipated.

All in all a text book opener. Here's me celebrating the first shock of the tournament.