• Eric Rushton

Football's Coming Home

It’s.


Coming.


Home.


I set myself a target a few months ago to write a new blog every Wednesday, but I don’t know what to write about today because I have euphoria racing through every fibre of my being. I’ve been buzzing my tits off so much that I’ve gone down three cup sizes.


Normally there’s at least one repeating neurotic thought going round in my head and writing a blog about it both soothes me and helps me get out some sweet sweet content. But it’s just pure joy at the moment, replays of the goals are all that’s going round in my head. Which makes me a bit worried as I’m pretty sure my brain isn’t an official broadcast partner of Euro 2020, so there’s a chance UEFA might sue me.


Fuck it though, I’ll take them on in court if I have to. I will simply say: your honour, football is coming home.


Beating Germany meant a lot to me because I’ve held a grudge over them ever since the Third Reich. Also, I was pretty pissed off about the Volkswagen emission scandal of 2015. I don’t wanna sound xenophobic, but for me, they’ve really let themselves down as a nation there.


Then there was 2010, when they beat us 4-1 in the last sixteen of the World Cup. I was fucking gutted; I was so hyped for that tournament, and we got absolutely battered. When we were 2-1 down, Frank Lampard scored a belter to equalise but it was deemed to have not crossed the line and the goal wasn’t given. The replay showed it had in fact crossed the line and 14-year-old me was distraught. That goal could’ve changed the game and the face of history.


But it doesn’t matter now. Because Gareth Southgate came along and spanked their emission-manipulating asses. Unbelievable scenes. I had a gig last night after the football and we were all watching it in the venue beforehand, and particularly when the second goal went in, we all went mental; like people were legitimately developing psychological conditions that they will be stigmatized for having for the rest of their lives.


The first goal was ruined for us, though. We were watching it on a laptop hooked up to a projector and our stream was on a delay. Someone shouted out that we scored and although we were buzzing, I’ve never heard the phrase, “turn your fucking phone on airplane mode” shouted so many times.


I can’t be mad at that guy – I’m too happy. I’m so excited for the rest of the tournament, and the prospect of football coming home. I don’t want to jinx it, though. Besides, even if football does come home, that’s a huge step. Once football moves in with us, we might realise we’re not compatible. It might leave shaven pubes in the shower and take up more than its fair share of fridge shelves.

But I reckon we’ll make it work.


Dunno what I’d write about, though. If England win the whole thing, then I might have to retire from comedy all together.


Anyway, that’s about it.


Cya x



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