V

I've been writing a post every day this week. I'm not sure if it should continue. I don't want to put too much pressure on myself, and the longer I go without missing a day, the harder it will be to stop. So maybe I won't do one tomorrow.

Another thing to consider is that the World Cup starts tomorrow, and so I probably won't have much on my mind other than football. I suppose I could do constant match reports, but that would probably get a bit boring. Unless I start making things up (eg. "the Uruguay striker is a greengrocer", "France is not a country" etc).

I've spent most of this evening putting together a Spotify playlist for the tournament: 32 songs, one from each country. It has involved a lot of Googling, Spotify searching and guesswork. I've managed to hear some Ghanaian Highlife, some Serbian Britpop, and other miscellanea. Of course, no-one will want to listen to it. But maybe some gems will emerge.

I'm tired. I should say that now, to explain the shortcomings of this entry. Though that goes without saying. I'm always tired.

Maybe I should rename this blog: I'm Always Tired.

***

Hey, Saints have announced their new home kit for next season!

A kit from yesterday for the team of tomorrow.
Seems a bit short sighted. I mean, we're not even playing tomorrow. They should have thought more long term about that. Ideally, we'd be able to wear them all next season.

I quite like it (especially the lack of sponsor). But the red sash makes it look a bit like the uniform of some parallel universe Aryan Cubs.

When I was a youngster, I'd regularly get football shirts. But I don't know if I could pull it off as an adult. Especially that one. I like the idea of showing my support, but not if it leads to people thinking I've been run over by a bleeding motorbike.

I never had any footballers' name on the back of my shirt. I think 97% of all Southampton shirts with names on were for Matt Le Tissier.

But I remember thinking that I'd get someone different. I didn't want to go with the most popular choice. Even then, I was discerning (and an idiot). I probably would have gone for Barry Venison or Nicky Banger or someone else unconventional and rubbish.

It was the same logic that lead me to preferring Donatello in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He was funny and clever, but not most peoples' favourite. I don't want to cheer for the favourite - the underdog is cool.

This same mentality lead to an incident in Freshers Week of University. I'd just arrived, and was hopelessly naive, socially inept and generally a fool.

We had a Bop (which is the obnoxious Oxford term for a lame college disco). As part of it, there was a twist contest, in the style of Pulp Fiction. Exactly in that style - they played that Chuck Berry song on a loop for the duration. I was dancing, which meant I was drunk. I danced with an American girl, whose name I don't know, and whom I didn't speak to much after that.

My avoidance of the obvious came to the fore, as a consciously thought to myself "I'm not going to do the Pulp Fiction V-fingers across the face move". You know the one:

"Everyone will be doing that. So I refuse to do that. It will make it seem like I don't know anything about the twist. That I only know about it from Pulp Fiction."

Of course, that was the only place I knew it from. I didn't know how to dance in any way. But still, I stubbornly refused to do the V fingers. (I did do the 'throwing-invisible-rope-around-dance-partner-and-reeling-her-in' move though, as a concession to the establishment).

Everyone else did do the V fingers. And was my refusal to kowtow to the mainstream rewarded?

Yes it was. We won the competition!

(One of about five couples to do so)

We won some cheap sparkling wine. What a night! (Nothing of any interest happened after that)

I think it's a good illustration of my character. But not as good an illustration as the following:

"I am a dick".