Pub peasants: Thinking they're Sven - like they've personally invested millions of their own money into the sqaud and spent yonks of their own precious time watching them train - 'What were you thinking you *********?' at any player not up to scratch while waving their arms in a frantic fashion at a plasma screen like it can hear or see any of you.
Me:
Pub peasants: 'Stupid fu**ers' and other such unpleasantries as England enter that old favourite ground, looserville.
Me:
Pub peasants: Loaded with alcohol and shouting obscenities at whoever they can find who comes close to resembling the team that we've just lost to.
Battered Portugese guy: 'But i'm not Brazilian'
Pub peasant: 'You're close enough'
Lager and peanuts and other bar savouries being thrown everywhere in between intelligent conversations such as 'Would you bone her? Gawd knows how Beckham does..'
repeat to fade
And hence Cavey does run football nights in her livingroom and they are the best in the world....