Author's Note: More abuse of football songs, ridiculous footy jokes, stereotypes of various national teams and fans, references to a 2009 handball incident, swearing, as well as Scotland and Ireland shouting ridiculous things. (Oh come on, have you been to a Scotland vs England or Ireland vs England game?)
Also, lame attempt at drawing Lovino in his kit:
http:// img254. imageshack. us/ img254/ 6080/ lovinoazzurri. png
(Delete all the spaces in the above URL. If that doesn't work, click on my profile page - there's a direct link to the image there.)
Of Family, Friends and Football
Part Eight: The Beautiful Game – What's Left of It, Anyway
It was almost like your typical football match, Arthur mused at half-time.
Players? Obviously.
Spectators? Definitely.
Rude and possibly drunk spectators? Oh yes indeed. He winced as his brother broke into another rude football chant.
"This old man, he told me, Arthur looks like a soft tattie, with a knick-knack paddywhack give the dog a bone, England should just sod off home!"
Brother or no, he was going to kill that Scottish bastard later.
The only thing missing so far was the usual verbal abuse of the referee found in football matches everywhere, but it was understood that today's match was an extraordinary exception due to the referee being an armed and short-tempered Swiss with an itchy trigger finger.
"What does 'soft tattie' mean?" Gilbert asked.
"Don't answer that," Ludwig grumbled. "And don't even think of using it in conversation either!" he added, looking sharply at his brother, who snorted at him in reply.
"Wouldn't dream of it." Arthur sat down on the bench and wiped his face with a towel. He fished in his bag for a bottle of Lucozade and an energy bar. His teammates were also having energy chocolate bars and sports drinks. They would need all the extra strength for the second half.
Suddenly, both Ludwig and Gilbert turned to Arthur, frowning. "Could you stop that? It's not exactly good for our morale, you know," Ludwig grumbled.
"Huh? Oh, sorry. Habit." Arthur did not realise he was humming The Dambusters march. "Still touchy about that all these years...." he muttered under his breath. "What's the other side doing anyway?" he asked.
Gilbert stood up and squinted at the other side of the pitch. "I think they're eating. Oh yeah, our little Feli told me he made pasta for his brother's team. Lots and lots of delicious pasta." He smirked.
"Did he now?" Arthur replied. "I hope they have a nice hearty meal then."
The two men exchanged mischievous looks.
"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" Ludwig accused, always alert to anything suspicious. "You two had better not be up to anything stupid."
Gilbert said rather loftily, "Don't be ridiculous. We're not going to do anything, they've already done it to themselves."
"Come again?"
"Never mind that," Arthur said, hastily changing the subject. "Remember Ludwig, basically you're pretty much on your own for the second half. Gilbert and I are going for an all-out attack, so I won't be around much to defend. Then again, I doubt the other team will be able to keep on attacking like they did in the first half anyway."
"What makes you say that?"
Gilbert smirked. "You'll see."
--x--
Ludwig wiped the sweat off his brow. Gilbert was right; the second half of the game was more interesting than the first.
He certainly had to do more work in comparison to the first half, due to his teammates concentrating more on attacking rather than defending. Fortunately, he had managed to save all of Antonio's and Lovino's attempts at scoring so far. Lovino's attempts were quite easy to save; the Italian seemed to be obsessed with hitting him in the face with the ball, rather than actually scoring a goal.
Perhaps Arthur was right about him being more than a bit of a masochist when it came to football. His hands hurt, but he did not mind the pain much; it was worth it just to see the increasing frustration on Lovino's face.
Antonio's shots were a bit more tricky to deal with, but Ludwig had successfully saved the two attempts he had made. Fortunately, the Spaniard seemed to be content with letting Lovino do most of the scoring attempts. The next attempt at goal-scoring however, was not from the Italian.
Antonio straight-on approach gave very few clues as to where the Spaniard was aiming his shot at the goal. Right? Left? Centre? Antonio was right-footed, but that certainly did not stop him from making an attempt with his left.
Ludwig's eyes narrowed.
Right foot!
Ludwig dove to the side, but that small moment of hesitation had cost him. True, he had correctly judged the direction of the kick, but had underestimated the height Antonio aimed for. His outstretched hand barely grazed the ball; was that slight contact enough to throw the ball off its trajectory? He certainly hoped so as he watched the ball sail in the direction of the crossbar.
His heart sank when he realised it was not enough. The ball bounced off the inside of the crossbar and went into the net.
Vash blew his whistle, and Lovino did the rare act of voluntarily hugging Antonio. Francis whooped and barely remembered in time not to blow any kisses to the stands. The crowd clapped and cheered to the maiden goal, but Ludwig barely heard any of it.
He turned to his teammates and raised his hands slightly in a gesture of apology. Arthur merely shook his head and mouthed, 'It's OK', while Gilbert grinned and made a thumbs-up sign before the two went to get ready for the kick-off.
The game resumed and Ludwig vowed to observe Antonio's movements more carefully. He would not allow himself to make a second mistake, and watched the man like a hawk. About fifteen minutes into the second half, Ludwig frowned. Was he imagining things, or was Antonio a little bit slower compared to the first half? Even though he did just score a goal, the man's movements appeared to be more relaxed – wait, did he just yawn?
Ludwig blinked.
Only then did the German realise what was going on.
No wonder Gilbert had insisted on picking the time for the match. If Ludwig remembered correctly from Gilbert's stories about his friends, usually Antonio would take a short nap – a siesta, that was the term – after his mid-day meal. And Antonio certainly had a hearty mid-day meal, for no one could resist Feliciano's pasta.
Delicious, sauce-laden, carbohydrate-heavy pasta.
He looked at the yawning Antonio, then at his brother. He shook his head.
Ludwig had to admit, Gilbert was good.
--x--
"About bloody time," Arthur had muttered when he noticed the slight listlessness afflicting his midfielder counterpart. When Gilbert had discussed his plan some time ago with Arthur, the Englishman was quite reluctant to go along with the idea, but decided that it had some merits. Feliciano bringing pasta for the other team was an unexpected, but not unwelcomed bonus. It was a gamble, hoping that Antonio would stick to his usual habits, but Arthur had prepared a backup plan just in case Antonio could forego his siesta after all. It was not much of a backup plan, but it was a better one than Gilbert's, which involved the Deutsches Heer and at least two fully-armed Eurocopter Tiger attack helicopters.
As for their original plan – well, Ludwig would have called it sneaky. However, considering that the frog had tried to hack into Arthur's computer (and Gilbert's, but they had decided not to tell Ludwig since they were not sure what the German would do in retaliation) and god knows what else, Arthur preferred to think that both teams were fairly even in the being sneaky department. Besides, like Gilbert mentioned earlier, Antonio's current affliction – he wondered if they noticed it just yet, the fools – was something their opponents did to themselves.
Fortunately, their team had a bit more energy than the other side, since they had chosen to mostly defend in the first half. It was not much of an advantage, but enough to make it a bit easier for Arthur to move past Antonio. Even though the Spaniard was in a siesta mood, the man was still someone to be reckoned with. Antonio dogged him as he ran on the left side of the field, not giving him an opportunity to pass the ball to Gilbert.
Arthur was running out of room; he was already more than halfway up the other side's half of the pitch and it seemed that Antonio wanted to force him to either make a desperate and easily-intercepted pass to Gilbert, or take his chances and try to obtain a corner kick.
Then again, maybe he did not have to pass the damned ball to Gilbert after all.
"Bend it! Bend it!" yelled someone from the stands, who apparently shared the same thought in Arthur's mind.
Arthur kicked the ball into the air, applying the correct amount of force on the ball's side with the inside of his foot in order to make it spin. The ball sailed up in a slight curve. Francis rushed out of the goalmouth in the expectation that Arthur was making a long cross to where Gilbert was waiting not too far from the right corner; the Frenchman hoped to intercept the ball before it got there.
Francis certainly was not expecting the ball to sail past his outstretched hand and instead of arcing toward the awaiting striker, curve right into the far corner of the net.
Vash blew his whistle, while the crowd roared.
"Eat my goal, frog!" Arthur announced, pointing at Francis, who was looking back over his shoulder in disbelief.
Ludwig's loud voice boomed from their end of the pitch; the German was shouting his approval at Arthur's equaliser. Gilbert on the other hand, simply rushed towards the Englishman and literally lifted him up in an excited hug. "Arthur, you bastard," he exclaimed, "that was so cool!"
"Thank you," Arthur managed to croak; the man may be a bit on the thin side, but Gilbert certainly had a strong grip. "Now put me down!" he gasped.
"Oh yeah," Gilbert said and did as he was told, but not before giving a final squeeze.
"We shouldn't celebrate just yet," Arthur reminded him, "we still need to win the match."
Gilbert grinned and patted Arthur's right shoulder. "Working on it."
--x--
As much as Gilbert hated to admit it, he was beginning to get tired. A quick glance showed him that he was not the only one; even Arthur was starting to show signs of fatigue. The Englishman's expression was as calm as ever, but Gilbert could tell by the way the man moved that he was literally running on his reserves. Not really surprising, since Arthur did do most of the work in the first half.
And besides, he thought with a superior smirk, Arthur was not awesome as he was.
But even with the pasta-overdose plus siesta-lethargy factors afflicting the other team's midfielder, they were still at a draw with not much time left in the game, and he certainly did not want the game to go into extra time.
Perhaps it was time, Gilbert decided, to use his secret weapon.
--x--
Lovino was annoyed.
While being annoyed was generally the Italian's default mood, today's game certainly displeased him more than usual. They were already leading and that stupid Francis just had to fail to save that English bastard's goal.
And now that potato bastard's brother was being incredibly irritating, shadowing every single move Lovino made. Swearing and insulting the man did not have the expected effect of making his opponent lose his concentration; so far his choicest insults only made that other potato bastard cackle in amusement. Lovino wondered if it were partly because he was unable to actually shout his favourite insults, due to fear of Vash and his strict refereeing.
That platinum blond potato-eating freak was now running alongside Lovino. Just running, not even attempting to steal possession of the ball. "Hey, Lovi! Wanna know something good?" he asked with that annoying smirk on his face.
"What, that you're going to lose?"
"No," Gilbert said, his smirk growing even bigger. "Did you know that your precious kit's made by one of ours?"
Lovino choked.
Wait, Puma was German? It couldn't be... could it?
Oh shit.
There was no way he would have allowed such a heretical thing to occur – oh no, he knew for a fact that he had hammered into Feliciano's skull that no way would their national team be wearing Adidas, and Feliciano had assured him that the national football kit would be from another firm, one 'that had a cute kitty logo'.
And Feliciano never told him that other firm just happened to be German.
That only meant one thing; that potato bastard must have coerced Feliciano into this – this blasphemy that was the national kit!
Lovino froze when he spotted his younger brother, who was furiously waving that ridiculously huge white flag on the terrace, cheering with all his might. Sure enough, Feliciano was shouting his name, but his brother was also yelling... for the other team?
"Feliciano! You – you–!"
Unfortunately, no amount of sputtering and half-hearted swearing was going to change the situation he was in. Thanks to his potato bastard-influenced idiot of a younger brother whom he foolishly had trusted to take care of the national team – and had the cheek to cheer for the other side, oh no, Feliciano would not have any pasta for at least a month, Lovino vowed – he was wearing a full set of sportswear of unholy, unclean, macho-tainted potato bastardness. And ran in it and sweated in it and oh dear lord in heaven the jersey was clinging to his skin–
Lovino never felt so defiled in his entire life.
"CHIGI~!"
--x--
His Italian quarry literally stunned by a revelation, Gilbert swooped in for the kill.
"Pay attention to your kit providers next time, little Lovi!" he sing-songed and ran off with the ball, making his way swiftly into the other team's half of the pitch.
Antonio looked as if he could not decide what to do; run to his precious Lovino and ask the Italian why was he whimpering, or go after Gilbert and avoid being smacked by an angry Lovino later for abandoning the match. Deciding the former would be a more suitable course of action, the Spaniard raced after the Prussian, but not before throwing a worried glance at his former charge.
Gilbert flicked the ball to Arthur just in time to avoid losing it from Antonio's tackle.
"You're not the only one who can play Tic Tac football!" Arthur yelled to Antonio, flicking the ball back to Gilbert when the Spaniard ran after him.
"Tiqui-taca!" Antonio corrected (with a smile, even).
With Lovino rendered immobile due to the issue of kit manufacturing, which Gilbert smugly noted was not an offence under the Laws of the Game nor the match's Additional Rules of Engagement, poor Antonio had no chance in trying to contend with the Anglo-Prussian duo.
Playing the classic one-two combination, Arthur would flick the ball to Gilbert on the right, and then moved further up for Gilbert's return pass, while Antonio would vainly try to take possession of the ball. Passing back and forth without a pause, the duo dashed up the field and soon approached the penalty area. Both of them knew that the game was already on injury time; if this attempt was unsuccessful, Vash would signal for the end of the half and the match would go into extra time.
Arthur rushed towards the goal, an evil expression on his face, and kicked. Francis hesitated for a slight second, clearly remembering Arthur's curved shot earlier, but by the time he realised the ball's actual trajectory, it was already too late.
Gilbert slipped past Francis to receive the short cross and headed the ball into the net.
Vash blew his whistle and as cliché as it sounded, it was true – the crowd went wild. Gilbert pumped his hands in the air and yelled in excitement; the next thing he knew both Arthur and Ludwig had tackled him down, Arthur yelling in English, Ludwig in German, but both of them clearly elated with the winning goal.
It hurt, Ludwig hugging him tightly like that, but at least his little brother was not being mushy about the whole thing, so it was all right. And besides, that was the thing to do to the winning goal-scorer; you lifted him up into the air and cheered for him, Gilbert thought.
The few moments afterward were a blur; Gilbert remembered the formality of a kick-off and then Vash blew two long whistles, indicating that the match was over. He was still elated over his goal. His goal that won the game.
They had fucking won the game.
However, no one expected that the action on the field was not over just yet.
Antonio was helping a dejected Francis up, when the loud and unmistakable sound of Lovino swearing in Italian caught everyone's attention.
"It's all your fault we lost!" Lovino screeched as he ran towards the Frenchman and the Spaniard, his eyes blazing with undisguised fury.
"But Lovi-"
Poor Antonio never got to finish his sentence, which was probably better off for him in the long run. When Gilbert talked to him some days after the match, Antonio told his friend that he was going to cheerfully point out that they might have won if Lovino had not been aiming for Ludwig's face all this time and instead had concentrated on actually scoring goals. That would have earned the Spaniard a fate worse than today's.
What happened next was almost as entertaining as the game.
--x--
To this day, Ludwig was not sure whether the fact that his people were ignorant of this special international football match was a blessing, or a curse.
Perhaps it was a blessing, since none of them would witness just how ridiculous nations actually behaved when they played football. Or perhaps it was a curse, because due to lack of awareness of the international game and the TV coverage that usually went with it, the people of Europe – no, the world – had been unable to witness an incredibly rare event in the history of the sport where a furious Azzurri took down both Les Blues and La Furia Roja at the same time with a flying clothesline, Lovino's extended arms hitting Francis and Antonio in their necks, knocking the two unfortunate nations over to the ground. Still not satisfied, the Italian grasped a fistful of Francis' jersey and punched him, before he tugged Antonio up and headbutted the stunned Spaniard.
Apparently Lovino did have some courage, Ludwig thought; the surly Italian just needed a dose of football to bring it out. And strangely enough, for some reason this did not surprise him one bit.
"Holy crap!" Gilbert exclaimed with undisguised delight. "When the fuck did that kid learn some wrestling moves?"
"Who cares? More importantly, did anyone get that on camera? Someone, please tell me you got that on camera!" Arthur yelled.
Feliciano's hand was the first in the air, while several other nations followed suit, waving their digital cameras and cellular phones.
"I want those pictures!" both Arthur and Gilbert demanded, rushing to the terrace.
Lovino's outburst of violence seemed to be an encouragement for pitch invasion, for the next thing Ludwig knew, one of Arthur's brothers jumped from his seat and dashed down to the pitch. He lunged for Francis, who had just got back on his feet.
"Thierry Henry this, you feckin' streak of piss!" the Irishman yelled as he socked Francis in the chin. His blue-clad brother immediately rushed down the terrace to join him in the brawl, even though just a while ago the man was shouting things in Francis' favour. Not that it was much of a surprise, since Arthur's Scottish sibling had struck Ludwig as the sort who would buy two seats for every football match he attended; one to sit in, and the other to rip out and throw when the fighting started.
Then again, perhaps it was just a brotherly thing to do for Scotland, although Ludwig doubted that he would cheerfully get into a fistfight that Gilbert just happened to start. (Well, Ludwig would get himself involved but definitely not in such good spirits, and Gilbert would go down from one of his own punches before he dragged his brother home.) Or maybe it was just a British Isles thing. Arthur may tried to present himself as a distinguished gentleman, but the man did possess a mean and violent streak.
Or maybe, and more likely, football just made them all insane, himself included.
He wondered if Vash would intervene and resolve the current mayhem on the field, but the Swiss had disappeared; presumably he had gone off home with his sister. Ludwig did not blame him one bit.
Arthur returned, satisfied with promises made by the other nations to email him pictures of the match later. Gilbert however, seemed to be encouraging Feliciano to take a few more pictures of the current brawl on the field, before he returned with his digital camera and pet bird, sniggering. Ludwig gave Arthur a significant look before pointing at the ruckus his brothers were making.
"Oh, all right," grumbled Arthur. "Oi! You lot! Quit it!" he yelled to his brothers as he walked towards the spirited non-verbal discussion regarding a certain handball. With the ease that could only come from years of experience, the Englishman calmly went to the ongoing melee and (rather reluctantly, Ludwig observed) dragged his two brothers away from poor Francis, whom by now was sporting a black eye as well as a split lip.
"You're a spoilsport, ya wee bawbag!" Scotland yelled in protest.
"Shut up, you fuckwit. We're not at home, if you haven't noticed."
"Yer maw–"
"His ma's our ma too, ye bleedin' eeijet. Now shut that gob."
Ludwig prayed that his brother was not listening closely, or if he were, the thick accents would be too much for him. Gilbert learning strange English phrases and insults from Arthur was bad enough.
"Have you got all that out of your system yet?" Arthur asked.
"Not all of it, but it'll do for now," replied the Irishman. "I'm savin' the rest for later. Keep in mind though, was only shoutin' for ye 'cause of the barse-faced French shitehawk bastard. Don't be expecting the same in other occasions."
"Duly noted. Now fuck off home."
"Alright. I'd murder for a pint right now. Ye comin'?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, I'm still not done here. You two go on ahead. And for pity's sake, don't cause any trouble on your way back."
The Irishman shrugged. "Be seeing you." He tugged their other Scottish sibling by the collar and both of them left the pitch, whistling.
"This calls for a celebration!" Gilbert announced.
"We still need to sort out that mess first," Ludwig pointed out.
Lovino was still raining rather feeble punches on poor Antonio, who was trying to get the smaller man to calm down. Feliciano had wisely chosen a strategic retreat and was clinging to Roderich and Elizaveta as they left for the parking lot, the latter promising to shelter the former for the day if Lovino was still mad at him. (Good thing too, because Ludwig had not tidied up this morning due to the game; it would be embarrassing if the Italian had sought refuge at his house, since the whole place was a mess.) The rest of the nations were starting to leave, with a few choosing to stay behind to see the outcome of the follow-up Italy and Spain duel. Francis was still lying on the pitch, whimpering.
"Forget those idiots, they'll be fine on their own. Antonio and Francis can take care of themselves. Let's go, West!" Gilbert said, his lower lip sticking out slightly in a pout.
"Don't start," Ludwig warned. "That pouting thing is getting old."
Gilbert snorted. "You're just jealous because I'm a sexy motherpucker."
"Sexy mother–"
Arthur barely covered his mouth in time to stop himself from laughing. "Don't look at me. He came up with that one himself!" he protested when Ludwig glared at him.
"Don't argue with your awesome brother, West. Let's just get ourselves and Arthur a real drink instead of that boring ale."
"I like ale," Arthur growled.
"You won't after I get some proper beer in you," Gilbert replied with a smirk. "Now let's get changed and go!"
--x--
While Ludwig was not opposed to celebrating their victory with a round of drinks at the local pub, he certainly was not too keen on the idea of drinking with Arthur. Arthur had an established reputation for being a hopelessly sad drunk, after all. At first he was doing quite all right; the man and Gilbert were even teaching each other some football songs for a while, but it was only a matter of time before the alcohol got to their English teammate. Surprisingly, Gilbert had come up with a solution to prevent their victory celebration from being marred by a round of hysterical weeping from their somewhat plastered friend.
"At least you're not calling it soccer like that fool Alfred," Arthur grumbled. He sniffled. "Alfred.... Why did that idiot have to go independent?"
"Oh shit, there he goes again," Gilbert grumbled. "Here Arthur, look at this!" he said, shoving his digital camera at the Englishman, who was starting to sob. "Come on, look at that shot of Francis there. Lookie at him getting a black eye! See?" he cooed, gently grasping Arthur's chin and turning the man's face to look at the display screen.
Arthur's sobs died down, and slowly gave way to a fit of mad snickering. "God, that is such a brilliant picture. Remind me to send Feliciano a gift basket."
"Sure, sure."
"By the way," Ludwig said, "you did say this whole thing started because you wanted to settle an argument you had with Antonio and Francis."
Gilbert nodded. "Yeah, they kept teaming up against yours truly right here. Hell, I know I'm much more awesome than both of them put together, but the whole everybody-against-Gilbert thing gets boring after a while."
"Well yes, but what were you arguing about in the first place?"
Gilbert fell silent for a few moments. "You know what, I can't fucking remember," he finally admitted.
Arthur stared at him. "You don't remember."
"Nope!"
Arthur looked as if he were about to say something rather snappish, but changed his mind in favour of a shrug before he said, "Doesn't matter, at least I got to beat Francis."
"Why did you pick football to settle the whole thing anyway?" Ludwig asked.
"Oh, it was on the TV at the time."
Arthur laughed at Ludwig's incredulous expression. "Count your blessings, it could've been worse."
"How so?" Ludwig sighed.
"Could've been a war film showing."
Ludwig shuddered. "Good point."
"The whole thing's daft, I don't know why. You have to laugh, or else you cry," Arthur sang what was probably a verse from another one of his football songs. Whatever it was, Ludwig found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with the more than slightly tipsy Englishman.
Maybe he was getting tipsy as well.
"Ooh, you haven't taught me that one yet. You know, that loser Francis brought some wine with him. Said he was going to use it to celebrate when his team won." Gilbert sniggered. "I should've taken that bottle with us to drink."
"Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein. Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir," Ludwig faithfully recited.
"What does that mean?" Arthur asked.
"Just some drinking advice West believes in. Don't drink wine before beer, drink it after or else you're screwed."
"Really? We have something like that back home. 'Beer then whiskey mighty risky, whiskey then beer you're in the clear' is what we say."
Gilbert stared at him. "Isn't that backwards? No wonder you can't hold your drink."
Arthur paused in the middle of raising his glass to ponder it over. "Sod it, who cares," he said before he resumed drinking his beer.
"Hey, we should take a picture."
"For your blog?" Ludwig asked.
"Well yeah, and for us!"
"Let's get somebody to take the camera then," Arthur suggested.
"Don't bother, I'm an expert of taking pictures of myself." Gilbert moved so he sat closer to Ludwig on the right, with Arthur following suit on the left side. "All right, lift your glasses up." He extended his left arm far in front of the trio with his digital camera firmly in hand, ready to take a picture. "Ready?" he asked, his finger on the button.
"Ready."
"Lächeln!"
Click.
--x--
The victory celebration had to be cut short, much to Gilbert's disappointment, since Arthur had to catch his flight home. After saying their goodbyes and Arthur exacting a promise from Gilbert to email him pictures of the game – especially the ones of Francis getting beaten up – the two brothers went home. Predictably, Gilbert had rushed to his room once they returned from the airport; his brother wanted to update his blog.
When Ludwig checked on Gilbert later in the evening, the man was already asleep. The football game must have tired him out. Ludwig was feeling a touch fatigued himself and decided that it would be a good idea to go to bed a bit early. Still, there was one thing left to do on his routine. He went to his computer to check Gilbert's blog and was amused at what his brother had written for the day's entry.
Saturday:
We were fucking awesome today! I knew we would win!
2-1
2-1!
HAHAHAHAHA YOU SUCK AND WE'RE AWESOME
Then Gilbert posted the picture he had taken of the team in the pub, with a rather apt caption:
'The victorious Anglo-Prussian-German alliance celebrating their awesome triumph against the Franco-Spanish-Italian loser brigade.'
There were already a few comments from other nations on the entry, mostly congratulating on their victory. Francis and Antonio however, did not leave any comments; Francis probably because he was still nursing his injured face, while Antonio was not the sort of person who held a grudge over a football game – or more likely, did not even think of checking the blog in the first place. The only person from the losing team to comment was Lovino, who had left a short message in a big red font:
I HATE YOU BASTARDS.
Below Lovino's comment were replies from his teammates:
'Sore loser, aren't we?' - Arthur
'He's just jealous because we're awesome and he's not. Right, West?' - Gilbert
Giving in to a rare childish impulse, Ludwig clicked on the 'reply' button and typed just a single word.
'Right.'
He hit the enter key, smiled and went to bed.
Additional notes:
i. tattie - potato; soft tattie – soft potato
ii. Ireland v France handball incident – GUESS WHO. Also, in my head, Ireland represents both Republic and Northern Ireland (hence the Ireland rugby union team). So he gets two football teams, his own place and still gets to poke his nose in Arthur's business. Heh heh.
iii. The song Arthur's singing in the pub is called Tom Hark.
iv. Just the epilogue to go, and then we're done!
