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World Cup? Pfft!

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The first world cup tournament was held in 1930. Back in the 30s there weren’t many distractions for women such as myself, who would rather pass a football through her nostrils than watch her significant other eat his body weight in pizza and drink 48 times the recommended daily allowance of beer in the space of 90 minutes, while he prances around in his lucky pants with his face painted like the Union Jack and occasionally screams his head off for no justifiable reason.

Fortunately for footie-haters like myself, there are plenty of modern day distractions to keep us at arm’s length from the hype surrounding Rio Fernando’s dead leg and Theo Walnut’s lack of a plane ticket. We’ve got the final ever series of Big Brother to keep us entertained in the evenings, provided we can gain access to the television, which is, of course, an entirely impossible notion, and if you can’t squeeze past the throng of beer bellies in your living room, you could always run off to the cinema to watch Sex And The City 2 instead. Or take yourself for a picnic in the park to enjoy Britain’s glorious summer weather, which will inevitably require waterproof clothing. At the very least (and this is only for the brave) much enjoyment can be had from sabotaging your man’s viewing pleasure by accidentally allowing the rabbit to chew through the Sky+ cable, lacing his Budweiser with Senokot and insisting upon getting into a Deep And Meaningful during half-time, in front of his mates, using your baby voice, and occasionally bursting into tears… it’s worth bearing in mind, though, that this could result in homicidal behaviour. Again, it’s only for the brave.

None of this is to suggest that it’s only women who are adverse to the world cup. Much as it would be unfair to say that eyeliner is only for girls (hello, Russell Brand). I know plenty of women who actively encourage their boyfriends to lock themselves in the living room for the duration of the summer and who will quite happily join them in humping the TV every time Rooney scores a goal. I also know plenty of men who’d prefer to go to the ballet than don an over-priced England shirt and squeeze himself into a packed pub, like a sardine, to sing unintelligible verses at an 80 inch screen and shout naughty words at the Brazil supporters. Either way, there are a large number of poor, innocent people – male and female – who will be subjected to an entire month’s worth of naff TV, naff conversation and naff social gatherings, and frankly I feel we deserve better. At the very least, we deserve praise for our tolerance. (Praise in the form of a cake would be nice).

For the following month I will be sat in an office entirely divided in opinion; not surprisingly, it’s the men who are putting up ‘World Cup Chart 2010’ posters and debating which teams will make it through to the final, while us ladies cringe into our coffees and prepare to deal with the tears and tantrums that will inevitably arise in the upcoming weeks. While Toby writes his column detailing the highs and lows of each match and boring the pants off us ladies (figuratively speaking), I shall be irritating the (lucky) pants off the boys in the office by mocking them for crying when England score an own-goal and providing the rest of us with alternative ways to spend our time while our men gauge themselves on curry and disown their families in favour of the TV remote.

Are you anticipating being held prisoner in the kitchen while the boys trash your living room every night? Are you clinically depressed at the thought of being ignored for a month and going deaf from the screaming? Please, vent your frustrations here. Share your pain. A problem shared is a problem halved. Let’s talk about Big Brother instead and moan about football hooligans. Go on, it’s cathartic.

Written by Kate Spalding.

To contact Kate, email

For those of you who are utterly disgraced by Kate’s clear lack of support for our team, head on over to Toby’s column for the proper World Cup news.