An admission - and a picture

Okay, here's the thing. I'm going to miss all three England group matches (the world cup in football, for those of you who have been living under a log or in the USA).

This wasn't a deliberate thing. But somehow, I managed to book a hair appointment during the first match, a spinning class during the second (tomorrow) and my Yoga course will clash with the final group match.

I didn't do any of that on purpose. I actually quite like watching football when England is playing with an illicit beer in my hand (illicit only because it's not the time of day or week I usually drink) and this year I have a vested interest as I picked England in the office sweepstake and stand to win £52 if they win (yes, I know it won't happen but still). And, err, Iran. Who have been going great guns so far.

But at the end of the day, *winces in readiness for violence of anticipated response* it is only a game. I have listened to the arguments about cute men in little shorts but if you look closely at the average televised footie match, the players are bloody miles away most of the time and they wear those really unappealing knee-high stockings - the only visible flesh is the knee and the hand. Plus, it being the World Cup, Jose Merino, aka the hottest man in football, won't be required to make an appearance. Shame.

I'm not a particularly girlie girl and I can even understand/explain the offside rule, discuss the merits of various players and teams (come on, I read the papers and watch the telly, you would have to be pretty thick to miss it altogether). I can appreciate an impressive tackle (wahey), a blistering run from the likes of Owen (used to think he was quite fit but I'm bored with him now and a cracking goal well set up. I even know some of the words. But really, in between the exciting bits, it's just lots of faraway men running around on a big field, occasionally pulling at each others shirts in a homo-erotic fashion. Nuts magazine (despite all the tits, it's really quite good) does lots of entertaining football close-ups of footballers all being rather *emotional*, kissing each other and falling on top of each other in what can only be described as a rather sweaty public frottage. So if it's a toss-up between watching Iran play Angola or sitting in my room reading a book/listening to music, I'm afraid if there's no booze involved, the room thing wins every time.

I wouldn't mind seeing the match if the USA end up playing Iran though. Teeheehee.

Anyway, I promised a picture. This is my hair. As well as being dyed (by my own fair hand) it has been cut by a slightly dim but very pleasant stylist named Sharon.

Did we do a good job?

Okay, umm, picture not working, will try to get it up later.