A strange concept is egg worrying. I lived in many places over the years all egg free. Yet there's something in my bones, my very essence of life, akin to perhaps the ancient farmers who knew somehow that it is sowing of seed time of year or that fish in the rivers would be in abundance, the corn would rippen, the women would be more approachable. Something perculier to us Welsh folk. I'm thousands of miles away, have dozens of not only english sport channels but others, German. Italian, Russian, Turkish, Bulgarian obviously, many in other in tongues very strange but not one mention of the egg anywhere.
I do have this strong urge welling up in me, literally taking over my body, my mind, its as if a a alien entity has taken contol of my mind, I must, I must nearly to madness switch off all TV's, turn off the internet, avert my eyes from newspapers as the egg season is upon us. I must must avoid the egg.
Too late I am doomed, the words of the God of all Gods, the one true God, he that will smite (probably shag um up the bum) all other gods our true lord, Max, up an under (I wonder what he really meant with that lyric) here we go Boyce. I can almost smell the sweet, sweet aroma of deap heat, the streets of cardiff filling up with fans. The expectation, the pressure on the boys to win, win, win.
Then I think of the carnage, the rivers of piss, spew and excrement flowing through the streets of our fair football city, genitals being shoved in the faces of passers by, the spitting and foul language, people being assaulted, accosted and generally bothered by lovers of the egg. And as for the men ................