Post-traumatic World Cup Disorder

As Spanish mid-fielder Andres Iniesta slotted a goal into the back of the net at the Football World Cup final it effectively signalled the end of the tournament, much to the relief of many an alienated wife, girlfriend or rugby fan and to the chagrin of tens of millions of football fans and men desperate to escape mundane conversations with significant others on what colour bathroom tiles they should get for the house. The void grows virtually by the minute as the madness that was the Football World Cup abates towards South America (where it's now Brazil's turn to cough up billions to pay for FIFA Fuhrer Sepp Blatter's new expatriat empire). I stare at the TV expecting a build-up debate among soccer experts, the singing of national anthems, visuals of maddened, over-zealous fans, there faces painted, their flags draped over their pot bellies. But now there's nothing. Only remnants of what was. Empty stadia, mountains of wasted paraphanalia and super hangovers. The void grows as does our boredom and post-World Cup despair. What now? What are we meant to do? Work? Come on, that's just silly! Must we now revert back our reality? I choose to stew in this depression (which has nothing to do with South Africa being knocked of the tournament before, well, before the team could even prove anything of note). I choose to drink more (screw Cosmo's "10 great diets for after the World Cup"). I choose excess and prolonged derangement. I crave the public viewing areas, the throngs of people intoxicated on football jingoism and overpriced Budweiser (can that piss really be called beer?). I need the fervour and even, dare I say it, miss the drone of a trillion vuvuzelas. Yes, you heard right, I miss that satanic, ear-drilling instrument of mass (sanity) destruction. Okay, maybe I won't miss it for too long, but I do sorely long for the vibe, the atmosphere, the chaos, the enraged reactions from anti-vuvuzela-ites, which accompanied that damned trumpet. This was our reality for a month. I'll also miss the random acts of drinking. When else will we be able to use the excuse "It's the World Cup, come on man, I had to have a drink before church". When stumbling back into the office or into a beetroot-faced gilrfriend, from an alcohol binge, the World Cup was the staple excuse. That was the World Cup! Emphasis on the word 'was'. It's a thing of the past and, as my therapirst tells me on a weekly basis at an inflated fee, we just have to move on. But where do we go from here? To the pub, of course, the haven of sports replays, the platform of plebeian sports academia, where we can postulate, pontificate and imbibe until the feeling of despair, loss and boredom passes - much like Budweiser through our suffering livers.