Full Moon Fever at the World Cup
World Cup Diaries: Day 18.
World Cup Diaries: Day 18.
7th December 2022
Hey Bubba!
It’s 9.17pm on a bitter and wintery English evening, and under the fullest of moons. The fever took hold earlier, not of your humble narrator, good God no, I was busy cleaning the bathroom and if I’m as good a writer as I delude myself into thinking that I am, I’ll return to this particular subject shortly. No the fever has taken hold of my sports editor. That or the vast quantity of alcohol the poor wretch has consumed today and all because there wasn’t any football to watch from the World Cup. He’s passed out now thankfully, a slovenly mess in the corner of the room watching re-runs of Austria and West Germany from the 1982 World Cup. “Why won’t they think of the fans?” I hear him mumble, but that’s full moon fever for your Bubba. I’m going to let him sleep it off. I need some peace and quiet before I drop the bombshell on the drunken old soak that there isn’t a game tomorrow either.
Kids today Bubba are just innocent fools aren’t they? Seeking that otherworldly high from an alphabetised drug at hugely inflated prices from the guy next door’s best friend he used to work with? For the birds Bubba. For the birds. If only they knew that locking yourself in a bathroom for an hour with an industrialised strength limescale remover ensured you not only see that unicorns are real, you actually get to pet them, tickle their ears and brush their rainbow coloured manes. I emerged from that bathroom earlier arm in arm with the ghosts of Diego Maradona and Lev Yashin as elves from the underworld of the 8th Dimension convinced me that Geoff Hurst’s winning goal in the 1966 World Cup final had indeed crossed the line. And if you thought that was strange Bubba, you should have seen what I saw in that glorious if slightly discombobulating hour I spent dancing that fine line between industrial intoxication and insanity. I saw things you wouldn’t believe my old friend, but all those moments will be lost in time, like the tears of a defeated team at the end of a World Cup final.
I blame the fever and I fear it taking hold of me too.
The machine elves told me England are going to win the World Cup and I laughed in their multiple faces Bubba. “France are going to beat the living piss out of them” I said before covering myself with the caveat that even if they don’t, Brazil surely will in the final. They chided me those pesky elves, chided me for my fanciful and romantic love for Argentina. “Messi’s gonna cry! Messi’s gonna cry! Messi’s gonna cry!” they screamed in unison, taunting me relentlessly until I broke down mumbling that I wasn’t going to listen to them anymore and that Netherlands would be too clinical and too cunning for them. “Argentina always let me down” I sobbed, before realising that I was all alone and that inhaling industrialised strength limescale remover probably wasn’t the best use of an afternoon hour in a day soon to end with the descending of a full moon, and the fever that often follows.
There’s guaranteed to be a European country in the final and there’s a better than even odds they’ll be facing the very best South America has to offer. I can’t see past the physicality, tough defences and otherworldly individual talents of Brazil and France in the final but for now, and before another dreaded rest day of no live World Cup football, I can’t see an old Croatia troubling Brazil, I fear Netherlands being too organised for a disorganised Argentina, I pray for Portugal to receive a Moroccan shock, and France will beat the living piss out of England.
I hear my editor stirring in the other room. “Why won’t they think of the fans?” he cries. I’m going to break his sporting heart when I tell him there isn’t a game tomorrow. I might ask him to help me clean the bathroom.
Take his mind off things.
Must go now Bubba. I’m off for a game of headers and volleys with Diego and Lev.
I love you.
Send word.
Thanks for reading. In addition to the delights that can be found within the cave of wonders that is my archives, I’m penning a day to day diary of the World Cup, and here are days 15 through 17:
Morocco shake up the world and who needs Ronaldo anyway?
World Cup Diaries: Day 17medium.com
Brazil dance into the quarter-finals as Croatia break Japanese hearts
World Cup Diaries: Day 16.medium.com
Mbappe and Bellingham with the world at their feet
World Cup Diaries: Day 15.medium.com