England are through to the quarter-finals of the World Cup and I’m about as excited as the average American. Probably sub-normal and extraordinary Americans too.
We don’t really deserve to be there and we’ll probably go no further. Hopefully it’ll end in an exciting sudden death penalty shootout. Love them – at least one player will let his team down and cry like a girl. I may go and watch the game with other fans. I don’t really like to be reminded that there’s other Brits in Austin, but there’s something vaguely appealing about drinking a few pints, shouting at the referee and calling out ‘Eng-er-lund’ along with the crowd. Might even get misty-eyed over the national anthem. But only if someone punches me in the face as the music starts.
Just over a month till I go back to England for my mum’s birthday/party. In my imagination, I’m going to be the perfect daughter. I shall marvel at the latest bloomings in the garden. Still be fascinated by the fifth or sixth telling of the same story. Calmly explain why vegetarians don’t eat chicken. Smile when she talks about that ‘silly Tony Blair’. Not pull faces when discussing her medical problems. Stay relatively sober during her party. I’m hoping for a one, possibly two out of six success rate.
There’s something rather painful about Americans trying to use British swear words. Admittedly I may encourage it a little by using some british slang terms when I’m onstage – tosser and bollocks usually. But in Amarillo last weekend as I walking towards the back of the room, a guy looked right at me and said ‘you bloody wanker’. I couldn’t even be arsed to correct him on the fact that no-one calls a girl a wanker and nor would it be a bloody wanker. Bleeding or fucking perhaps, but generally it’s fine as is and doesn’t require an epithet. I called him a twat, just to keep to the spirit of the moment. It’s getting worse – last night after a show, a guy just shouted ‘bloody’ at me. Please end this now.