saturday afternoon fever

Monday 5th July 2010 11:36 PM

Three weeks ago I was infected by a particularly virulent strain of world cup fever and have subsequently been sofa-ridden ever since. In the first fortnight of my ordeal I was injecting up to four and a half hours of live football every day, and at times was reduced to being drip-fed and sitting in a pit of my own filth. Thankfully, Mark the farmer came round to hose me down before the knock-out stages and since then I've been eating solids and taking more interest in my surroundings.

The main source of pain has been England's pitifully poor performances and in particular the ball's mysterious, magnetic attraction to Wayne Rooney's shin. I also suspect I snapped a hope-tendon whilst wistfully watching a sad, slow Gareth Barry wistfully watching a happy, snappy German disappearing into the distant sunny uplands of a defenceless green space.

In my minds-eye, which sometimes wears a rose-tinted monocle, I imagined that England were actually going to make love to the world with football. Seduced by experience and a fabulous technique honed in the furnace of Albion's passion, ah, how the planet would thrill to our first touch, and gasp in pleasure at the swelling, sensuous symphony of delicate caresses and thrusting penetration. Most importantly of all, aside from the obviously pleasurable rhythmic convulsions of ecstasy, I wanted there to be some sort of lasting emotional commitment. To put it bluntly, without being hysterical, I wanted the world to have Wayne Rooney's baby.

Alas, the now ridiculously small and shapeless popped balloon of hope looks like a used condom, the shrivelled relic of a loveless back-street hump, rancid with the sharp tang of disappointment, lost dreams and the thwarted jism of Emile Heskey. Since England's elimination, any team that I've transferred my affections to, like Ghana, Argentina and Brazil, have immediately been knocked out, but because they're all meaningless flings on the rebound from a failed relationship, it hasn't really hurt that much. I quite fancy Spain now, but because I'm feeling a tad unlucky in love, I haven't told them yet.

As a diversion to my illness, I've been watching some of the Glastonbury highlights on BBC2. As someone who once made seventeen straight appearances, and three stoned ones, at this iconic festival, I've always fancied that it was essentially a hippy affair, so it was slightly perplexing to see a massive, swaying crowd, arms aloft, knees slightly bent, giving it the big thumbs up to the ludicrous US rapper, 50p Diddy Dog Poop.

'I know he's into guns and pimping, and that his message is essentially one of fear' said delighted festival-goer, Trudy Offal, a 28 year old lecturer in Women's Studies from Banbury, 'but he's got manly arms and I like some of the tunes'.

.What possessed the organisers to have this potty-mouthed, cock-strutting, sister-dissing soul-pygmy follow the magnificent Willie Nelson is beyond me. It's like playing Steven Gerrard on the left. Who picks these teams?