"Do you have a flaaaag?"

England is out of the Euro 2004.
Hurrah!
France is out too.
Hurrah!

Before the England/France match, I was literally defied by workmates, as obvious representative of my country of birth, whose collective arse would be kicked.
I shrugged, because I didn’t care either way. I don't think they believed me.
After the match, I was asked if I was triumphantly glad about the unbelievably unfair outcome of the game, and if I thought that Zickam was better than Becdane.
I shrugged, again.
As far as I am concerned, if some on-pitch spontaneous combustion occurred to any of the long-socked, nylon-clad overpaid men, I probably still wouldn’t care.
The good thing is that now my upstairs neighbour has finally shut up; and the little white and red flags that were gracing just about everything have disappeared overnight.
The flags are one of the aspects of my dislike; as soon as flags are flying, regression’s in the air. Although I feel nothing but mere disinterest in twenty-two sweaty guys kicking a ball, I wish them no harm; I just wish the whole thing wasn’t turned into a feast of patriotism.
It makes me sad.
Off to think about why flags make me sad.