I may exude confidence in the betting arena, but when it comes to relationships I’m somewhat insecure. It takes me a long while to reach the stage where I feel comfortable enough with a partner to move things on to a physical level.
When the time does finally arrive, I’m often so overcome with emotion that I’ll gently shed a few tears. Although this may just be a reaction to the mace.
I take after my old man for exhibiting these idiosyncratic traits. He used to drive me mad by asking a question then immediately answering it himself. One example was: “Son, what do you call a deep hole sunk into the earth to obtain water…well?”
He also displayed a stubborn streak. He once asked me to name a Spanish football ground that we could visit together, and he wouldn’t take "Nou" for an answer.
After visiting Spain, we moved on to Turkey to buy gifts. There were people selling bits and bobs on little market stalls—it was bizarre.
He also took me to visit his sister in New Zealand. She taught me all about the birds and the bees—it was something of an anticlimax.
My worst experience abroad was undoubtedly when I fell out with the owner of a late-night entertainment complex in Amsterdam. I was trying to explain to him why England is a far superior country to Holland, while simultaneously enjoying the company of a stoned girl who could have passed for Ruud Van Nistelrooy’s sister. The apoplectic proprietor told me to get off my high horse.
My unpleasant experiences abroad have led to an increasingly apathetical attitude towards international football. I’m not alone though; the only people who find this form of the game exciting are those who reside in a private room, spending their days watching the Back to the Future trilogy, wearing only a jacket that utilises the latest in arm-retention technology.
As well as being about as entertaining as a BBC sitcom, international football should be treated with disdain due to the involvement of Sepp Blatter. The increasingly ridiculous tool made a fool out of himself again this week when he claimed that buying a football club is as easy as buying a jersey. I can’t see you being charged half a billion pound for an England shirt—unless Dave Whelan is back at JJB.
I probably will succumb and watch England roll over Kazakhstan, just to see how Theo Walcott plays. I haven’t been this excited about a teenager since Ruud’s sister gave me tulips in Amsterdam.
David Bentley must be feeling a right plank for suggesting that Walcott should leave Arsenal to further his career. If Theo wanted to hear the opinion of an idiot, he’d ring up Chris Waddle.
Bentley blames Juande Ramos for his omission from the England squad. He should be pointing the finger at Capello—damn these Italian know-it-alls with their years of experience of winning trophies by only selecting good footballers.
I need to raise funds for my next trip abroad, so I’ll happily stake one point on Slovenia to beat Northern Ireland at even money. The winnings will go into a kitty to pay for a trip to Australia—it’ll be a unique experience for me to go deep into the bush.