I don't know if you know this, but I don't have much time for the sporting events of the world. Not that I don't know anything about them, mind you, but because I couldn't care less. Well, I could care less, I suppose, but it would take up more time and effort than I care to expend. Anyway, matches afford great opportunities to go to pubs, so I can't really complain. Sports control the ignorant masses, doncha know, and keep them busy so they can't plan a social uprising. So while you lot are off watching men and their various shaped balls, I am off planning social unrest. That and painting my toenails.
Case in point: Today is a Sunday, and in my book that means layabout-and-read-the-papers-and-think-about-what-colour-to-paint-my-nails-day. In between planning the revolution, obviously. To my mother and aunt Mercy, who is visiting, Sunday means lets-all-go-for-a-drive-and-look-at-old-churches-day. A dispute ensued, and the upshot of it is that the mother can not use 'I brought you into this fucking world' as an excuse to make me go look at old churches with her or I will laugh in her face. Since they left they have been ringing and texting me every half hour to check on the score in Wimbledon. Like the dutiful daughter and niece that I am, I have been stumping semi-naked from my sunbathing out the back to stare dumbly at the telly. 'The Swiss lad is winning. Two games to one.'
'Two GAMES?! What?!', they shrieked back.
'Listen, I can't tell the difference, games, sets thingys. Go away.'
'Wait! Check the GAA results!'
'No! Hell to the no. I have drawn a line in the sand, right when it comes to checking teletext for GAA results and I'm damned if I'll cross it. Go away.'
And that is where we stand today, my friends. No, that's not a terribly interesting or amusing story but hell, it's a Sunday. Even God rested on a Sunday.