F*****ing Football Fakers!

The House rose early yesterday because of a football match. The discussion of the establishment of an old persons' commissioner for Wales was overshadowed by posturing middle-aged men commenting at every opportunity how much they support England.
Despite the efforts of deputy speaker Sylvia Heal to draw MPs back to the business at hand, South African born satsuma-impersonator Peter Hain made clear he wanted to be out of the chamber in time for kick-off against Trinidad. On those odd days where there isnt a match for him to talk about, Peter likes to spend his spare time being Secretary of State for Wales. And Northern Ireland.
There is something so unsettling when politicians feign to be as interested as the proles in their prole pastimes. Hain came across as one of those middle-class middle-aged twats of which London has many.
They developed an interest in "footie" during the mid-90s as part of their overall Britpop makeover.
They did toy with the Mockney accent for while, but you know, since Jemima and Sam came into the picture it really wouldnt be right to speak sloppily in front of the children. These sad creatures nervously expound their love of "footie" and how darn passionate they feel about it. Best not to mention that funny feeling they get in their groin sometimes when they see David Beckham and Frank Lampard in a post-goal embrace.
No - they love the footie ball because somewhere in their very fragile masculinity it makes them think they are "real" men, to be anything ANYTHING except what they are - wet middle-class effete and pussy-whipped. Go down to Stoke Newington High St and throw a brick - you will hit about 20 of these creatures. Normally they are mooching round the health food shop, boring the shit out of people with their constant upbeat chatter, their loved-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives children in tow.
For some reason, for 4 weeks every 4 years, these de-balled marys sieze on the World Cup. Walking with my brother to the pub the other day, one of these creatures was outside watering his garden. My brother is a parent, which means all these cretins think they can attempt to engage him with what they think is light masculine banter. It is, of course, excrutiatingly off-key and always delivered in that slightly nervous tone, like if they say the wrong thing all that teasing they used to get at school will come back.
"not watching the match?" was his opener, followed by "Do you know the score? Yeah - thats why i am outside - can't bear to watch it." To which my brother replied: "Big Italy fan are you?"
To which Hackney twat replied - "oh nooo I am supporting Ghana."
That just about sums up the whole artifice. You just dont get football mate. My brother was having his nose broken in the not-very-Highbury-like stands of Cliftonville in Belfast when he was 17 - and having my ma fix it in the front room by smacking it back into place - THATS FOOTBALL SUPPORTING.
Anyway. Hain was at it yesterday. His classic remark was that he is flying an England flag from the balcony of his London flat - but not from his house in Wales. Thanks for that Peter. Be seen to be supporting the team - but only where it is politically advantagous.
And on a final note, we are just loving Sylvia Heal in the chair. Reminiscent of the glory days of Betty Boothroyd - most MPs need a good slap round the back of the legs, and the pissed-off nanny approach that Heal emulates is often a delight to watch.