So I kind of love the World Cup, partly because it’s guaranteed to make a nation of men cry baby tears when England inevitably fail to reach the semi-finals despite the News of the World crowing on about the fact that they’re definitely going to win this time and they have to return to the glory days of 1966 because otherwise rainbows will die.
But I also love it because, and I’m going to have to make a shameful confession here, although I possess that chronic illness known as football obsession (yes, even the stats), I also love football culture. I love WAGs. I love that massive gangle Peter Crouch and his beautiful lady Abbey Clancy and the fact that they have, somewhat remarkably, lasted (TRUE LOVE). I love the wedges and maxi dresses. I love footballers in their civvies and their attempts to express themselves through awful denim last seen in Diesel in 2001. I love their hairbands. I love them when they’re pissed and for reminding me that China White still exists. I love that when Nicky Bendtner got thrown out of Boujis he covered up his face BUT DIDN’T PULL HIS TROUSERS UP. I love Jose Mourinho because he is a total silver fox even though he is really short.

Yes, Jose, short. But you’re still a silver fox.
Definitely not short are the Danish team, who I also love because aside from the amusement provided by no-pants Nicky B, Daniel Agger is one hot piece. Unfortunately a recently married hot piece, but that needn’t affect my appreciation for his freckles, numerous (crap) tattoos and commitment to base layers. Okay I just googled ‘Daniel Agger freckles’ (don’t judge, okay?) and made a face at my computer a bit like Jose’s in the picture above because there is slash fan fiction involving him and Torres. (Sample sentence: ‘Fernando wouldn’t even admit it to himself, but when he saw the almost shy smile on Dan’s usually so tough face, the butterflies in his stomach started swirling like they were on crack.’) I’m a little bit wowed by the imagery of crackhead butterflies, but I think even for a freckle fanatic like me this is a step in thousand league boots too far.
Right, I’m off to drink some prosecco, do my nails and re-read the entire archive of Kickette, and then I’m going to input all the Denmark games into my BlackBerry calendar and take a moment to wonder at the miracle of Xabi Alonso’s mere existence (and his ginger beard). And if I still haven’t convinced you to embrace the sport in all its ample-thighed glory, maybe this picture of Crouchy wearing a penguin costume will.





























