Back of the Net. Sweet!

I don't tend to look ahead too much but I am now. Looking ahead a few days to next Saturday the 14th when my beloved England get to kick a ball into the back of the Brazilian net:)
The cutesy laddish knockabout is being held at the Khalifi International Stadium in Doha, Qatar.
HAVE YOU GOT THAT?

I'm wondering where Mr Capello will position Becks, will he be on the field for the full 90 or will he be languishing on the bench for half the blooming match. I just don't know. Talking of things I don't know...I don't know whether or not Cheryl should have married Ashley Cole. But back to reality...

This football lovers erotic dream will be shown on ITV, but I don't know at what time. An evening kick off might clash with another spectacularly favourite Saturday night event...The X Factor. Hmmm! I am hoping that the game takes place roundabout lunch time so I can oggle the footie all afternoon whilst I roast some pork ribs, then, at 8 p.m., flash my magnificent teeth at Dermot O'Leary:)

But before all that nonsense I need to:
Polish my Abdotrim torture machine:(
Learn "You must be joking Ref" in a foreign language:)
Go to the dentist:(



On a lighter note:
I can stretch my legs back over my head so they touch the headboard. Found this out a week last Monday after Googling 'yoga positions for the over 50's'.

Oh Yes!

There's a dent in my ceiling, a stain on my frilly blouse and I've lost a dozen radishes. No, I have not been having great sex, I was simply watching the greatest tennis match in the history of tennis matches.
When it started at two thirty my tummy was digesting a nice bit of roast lamb but it wasn't only gastric juices that were flooding me body, adrenaline was causing tumultuous waves too, because I do get so very excited over big sporting events and Sunday's men's singles final was no exception.

When Rafa took the first two sets I thought 'that's it, it's over for big Roger' but I was so so wrong. The match just got better and better, so good in fact that at one point I spilt tea all down my fabulous frontage and my mid evening snack of radishes and hummus got scattered all over my dismal sofa and all because Rafa had missed a couple of match points. I was getting the right hump.
What I called Federer is not suitable for publication on a public blog, suffice to say my language was rainbow coloured. When he kept coming back at Rafa I stared at my t.v. screen trying to put the heebie jeebies on him, my eyes went a bit crossed and smoke started coming out of my ears, I waved my arms about in a frightening manner and called up darkish forces just so the cute Spaniard could walk off court with a big gold cup.
And it worked! Because he did!

You know, I've been thinking, big tennis matches are rather like sex.
There's provocation in the build up, then enthusiastic manoeuvres all acted out with grace and seriousness, then a welcomed two minute respite after a particularly hard thirty minute set, then a further five hour flurry of activity and then a result.
Game Over.