There was a perfect storm this weekend. It was England's first World Cup game, kick-off was at 11pm Saturday night (for which the pubs had been give a blanket extension) and the weather was good, hot and mostly sunny. England fans like a drink, and most of them have trained themselves to be catatonic by closing time on a Saturday night. Old habits die hard of course, so the majority would have been like rag-dolls come half time on Saturday. Crosses for eyes, bubbles emerging from the nose - the works. The only thing that might have protected the nations beer gardens was an England victory, but that wasn't going to happen.
The wife and I spent the evening at my sister's house. We watched the first half there and decided to scoot home for the second before the nation's finest spilled out of the pubs and started soiling themselves. The cab office was like a morgue (this was midnight on Saturday, mind you). The cabbie said that business was slow, but there had been a mass brawl in Woodford to alleviate the tedium. He then pointed out the police helicopter that was hovering close overhead. England were drawing at this stage, and already the fans were scrapping. I don't know how they were going to top that when the Italians took the lead: ritual suicide perhaps.
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