vuvulove

Can't believe I'm saying this, but of the few matches I've watched, I kind of like the drone of the vuvuzelas in the background. After a while, it's kind of just become the vibe.

Even if it is the vibe of the sound of a plague. Of 8 million locusts descending.

Vuvuzelas at close range, say in an eardrum, or while you're trying to detonate a nuke, is a different story, but even so, the urge to throat slam the vuvuzelee doesn't really cross my mind.

I never thought I'd wear a yellow soccer shirt and have my face painted with green, or get so involved in the soccer that I'm screaming at a TV, holding my heart with my hand when they sing the national anthem. And look at me now.

During the England US match on Saturday, Dove, myself and the rest of our group were dancing around like monkeys to the Waka Waka song with a whole bunch of foreigners at the fanpark at Melrose Arch, when we bumped into an Indonesian.

'What the dickens are you doing here?'
'I'm here to support England. I like them.'

Fair enough. Despite the crucification of the English keeper whose life, never mind career, is over. Poor guy.

I can't wait for my Brit to touch down and experience the vaab with us here. This time next month, I would've just landed in London.
I have one month to capture and enjoy every vuvuzela that is blown within my proximity.
That's a lot of vuvuzela.