And so 4 weeks of television madness begins....it must be World Cup time!

AND so it begins. Robbie Williams kicks off the 2018 World Cup with a dodgy version of Angels and that’s the last I’ll see of entertainment for the next month! I have resigned myself to the fact that there is absolutely no point in asking any of the males in our house to do ANYTHING besides watch soccer for the next four weeks as I may as well be talking to the proverbial wall.

I did try to muster some enthusiasm initially. I organised a draw and we all put 20 quid in but myself and The Youngest got all the crap teams so we lost interest after that. ‘I don’t even know where Senegal is!’ she screamed as she stormed off to her bedroom. ‘I didn’t even know Australia played soccer,’ I said.

‘ They play it badly,’ quipped Himself not taking his eyes off the TV screen where Saudia Arabia were being hammered by Russia. I don’t even understand why you’re so interested in it anyway. Ireland isn’t even in it.’

The men of the house looked at me in disgust. ‘Mam it’s The Beautiful Game! We’ve waited four years for this. Some of the greatest players in the world are playing in this,’ explained The Eldest.

Whatever. I leave them to it and go and make the dinner. I come back in an hour later and they’re still rooted to the spot. Cups of tea and plates of biscuits are littering the coffee table and there’s a strong whiff of sweat and male adrenalin wafting through the room.

I climb over the two of them as they curse and shout at the telly, and open a window. They completely ignore me. ‘Right I’m bringing the dog for a walk. Can you two empty the dishwasher and hang out the washing by the time I get back?’ They nod and wave me out of the way.

I come back forty minutes later. Of course the dishwasher hasn’t been emptied or the washing hung out. How stupid was I to think normal life could continue during the world cup? Two of the Eldest’s friends have now joined the party so I can’t even abuse my own lads. AND they have their feet up on my newly washed cushions.

The pattern continues over the next few days. Various males of our acquaintance litter my living room with their big clumsy feet and shouty voices. They require endless cups of tea, bottles of beer and snacks. Himself and The Eldest even refused to come out for dinner on Father’s Day because they’d miss the Brazil/Switzerland game. Instead I had to give them dinner on their laps in front of the telly while myself and The Youngest are exiled to the football-free kitchen.

‘I never knew Daddy knew so many curses,’ The Youngest says as she once more hears her father scream obscenities at the telly. ‘When it’s over will he start talking to us again?’

If his blood pressure holds out that long...probably!