The beers are flowing, expectations high,

Underneath a grey, uncompromising sky.

We’ve pinned the B&M bunting to the local pub,

Convinced ourselves this year we’ll finally join the club.

It’s the same old cycle, the same old routine,

The greatest football circus that you’ve ever seen.

11AM and Big John’s on the floor,

Sprawled across the lino by the open fire door.

He’s a vision of devotion, a monument of pride,

With a massive St. George’s cross painted on his side.

It stretches over his belly, a vast, expanding space,

Moving up and down to his heavy breathing pace.

He’s proper pissed already, snoring through the hype,

A patriotic picture of a certain British type.

The flags are out the windows, flapping in the breeze,

Driven by a madness that brings us to our knees.

"Its comin Ome ," we whisper, "we’ve got a mega squad,"

Treating some teenager like he's a golden god.

We analyze the tactics, we slag the manager off,

While necking down a carlin with a 20 richmonds cough.

Bell your mate to tell em " just a few",

Sinking 3 for 2 on shots until somebody spews,

We’re singing "Three lions"with a blow up world cup,

Gearing up to watch them completely fuck it up.

Because the hope is what kills you, the hope is the trap,

Before it all descends into a load of utter crap.

The penalties will haunt us, the tears will start to fall,

And Big John will wake up sunburnt, remembering fuck all.

Another tournament, another dream we’ve spun,

God bless the English public... we’re absolutely done.