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“Good morning Mr. Jenkins”, said the bookie, ”this world cup throughly does miracles. I didn’t believe that it was possible to see you at this time of day”

“Well, pretend you don’t, will you. Watching footie is one thing, and chatting at 6:30 a.m. is completely another”, the answer that was much more like Murphy than the fact he was even there at 6:30, came as quick as you could imagine it, clearly showing that he means it. So, he was kindly left alone by the bookie, whose job was to try to be friendly, anyway, not to force the customers to talk.

Good thing with this cup’s matches being played at 6:30 gmt, Murphy thought, was the sole fact that the timing kept most of the people at home, and you could finally sit at the bookmakers’ and watch some good football without a swarm of idiots sitting all around you, stinkin’ and coughin’ and doing other grouse things. So, apart from the fact it wasn’t even 7 in the morning, he was in a pretty good mood, and was looking forward to see the “Bhoys” trash the bloody africans. Sure, the Keaneagate did do some damage, but with the other Keane left, the one that he prefered anyway, and some other quality players the victory wasn’t in question.

There is one thing about this guy that needs to be explained. He is a really big fan of the Irish football squad, but he is a still and quiet person, the one you use as an example when you try to explain the term understatement. So, he prefers watching the Eire matches when surrounded with just a couple of his mates or even alone, unless you consider beer as company, in which case you could say he loves the crowd. Knowing this himself he was in a crowd of his choice, right now, and the name of the gang sure was guinness, and the draught one this time, for this is a place where he knows everyone, and he needn’t worry about the bartender pooring him watter in his beer as day do in most bookie’s (and bars as well) with most drinks. So he had just finnished his second and the game began.
After the first beep from the referee and the subsequential estimating of the opponnent it nevertheless continued to be a dull match. The fucking negroes put a goal in, although they seemed hopeless, the only problem was that the bhoys were terrible.
“Oh, thank god I’ve already drunk 3 beers, a couple of whiskies to go, and I’ll be as fucked up as these slimes on the court!!! You should put your worthless brains out of your bodies, and loose some weight to run faster, fucking fat shits!!!”
So, as you can see, our hero was not in the mood, and he sure didn’t have a reason to be. In the meantime (that was actually a halftime, but what is the difference) a mate came in. Murphy slightly moved his head away, but he was spotted.
-Hail, mate, you’ve been here for long??
-Just the first half.
-Long enough for me; say, what’s the score?
-It is 1:0 for the damn negroes, not that I am a fascist, but are they ugly!
-Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get them in the second half
-I am not so sure
And after this, obviously friendly chat they turned to the tellie and watched the game, not actually together, because their sighs weren’t ment to each other, but to the air filling the room, because, when you watch soccer and eat your nerves up, the air is enough of a person to communicate to.
And the game went on...

And it suddenly, wasn’t all that bad, honestly. But if you don’t believe me, as you shouldn’t for I actually don’t exist, except as a voice in your head, or as a text on your screen, believe Murphy:
-That’s right yeeh gods of football, trash them, they don’t even have money for their sleeves; shit eating negroes...

... and so it was, Mat “the ingenious” scored in the way his nick (actually a bit more ad hoc that it looks) decribes, and although he tried this again later in the championship, which showed he was training that, at the time being this was a god-given creation, and the spectators reacted accordingly...

...Murphy was silent, just silent, he didn’t know why, but he remembered the hug his dad, who recently passed away, gave to him that foggy afternoon in the 1967 spring when Tommy Gemmil rose into the air and, well you should all know that better than I do, my parents have been barely fertile and I would have maybe had the chance to get born at the time only if they were in a really liberal family somewhere in Africa, which they simply were not. So, the silence howled, as only it can, and time stopped and it all happened at once, and still lasted for ever, and I really really hope Steven Hawking, or any other guy/lady that can actually imagine this, on the fundamental scientific basis, will not read it, at least not sober...

... The game ended never the less, and although Ireland had some chances to win, with Matty showing some more skill, it just didn’t happen, but I can’t imagine one guy that watched this game, and wore something orange besides green, at least in his mind (and I am referring to the jersey or flag colors and not to catholic blasphemers) that could be anything but thrilled and touched. Mr Jenkins was, too. He suddenly felt many things, and he was really happy, and I am sure that he would, if he was a little more sensitive, regret only that he couldn’t have revived his father’s hug in more than a memory, but he wasn’t, so I will be able to restrain myself from being too pathetic... well, the actual occurrence of that idea should maybe prevent me from further writing, or maybe make me regret the character showed by Murphy was the way it was, but it doesn’t. I hope that Jenkins exists, because until I believe in his existence, I will be able to truly enjoy the World Cups, and other soccer, and to make fun of stupid firecracker-burning Italians, that don’t even have a sparkle in their whole self, unless it is a lighter held in their hand...