1. Time
There have been moments when I have considered that perhaps the emotional and physical torture inflicted upon Her Majesty’s guests would be a lesser punishment than watching England play football. That perhaps the incessant bullying from both inmates and guards alike would pale in comparison to seeing James Milner – a player so chronically average it’s criminal in itself that he has an overall rating above 78 on FIFA – plodding aimlessly around some grass for a bit. That perhaps the agonizing days, weeks, months, years kept locked away from the outside world, from loved ones, from the simple comforts of home would go quicker than 90 minutes of Steven Gerrard’s wayward Hollywood passing. That perhaps a shank in the shower, be it via a shrewdly sharpened toothbrush or a really angry guy’s knob, might be more pleasurable than seeing Wayne Rooney’s cretinous, scowling face turn a darker shade of red with every passing moment. In short, it’s better to be made to toss the salad than to watch England by choice.
2. Be Broken Up With
Being dumped is well shit, is it not? It conjures emotion like almost nothing on earth; humiliation born of rejection, despair at no-longer-requited love, contempt at the fact that a potentially life-changing decision has been taken out of your hands, resulting in hour upon hour of borderline psychotic stalking of your ex’s associated social networks. Indeed pals, the search for what or who she or he is doing is an arduous and somewhat sadomasochistic one, almost as heartrending as picking up your shit from each other’s’ houses, crywanking yourself into oblivion and coming to terms with the fact that you will never find love again. Now, I’ve never done any of that, personally, but as terrible an ordeal as it is, it provokes passion. An England match is wholly devoid of any emotion, and that’s why I’d rather be dumped than watch one. No amount of rousing video packages containing lions, Terry Butcher bleeding from the head or Stuart Pearce losing his shit will ever change that.
3. Eat Dog Shit
To be completely honest with you, I wouldn’t eat dog shit. Not even out of my own dog who I love dearly. This point was simply an excuse to share a video I was subjected to over the weekend, featuring 70’s transvestite sensation Divine devouring dog faeces for pencil moustachioed pervert Jon Walters’ 1972 masterpiece Pink Flamingos. Enjoy this, because lord knows you won’t enjoy the rest of England’s World Cup qualifying campaign if the drab draw with Poland is anything to go by.
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