Working the game

When everybody has gathered in the conference room to watch the USA humble the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, I stand up on a chair just before the boss arrives and call them all to order.

‘During this game, we will be operating by the yellow and red card systems used in soccer.’

Cue quizzical looks all around.

‘If you ask a stupid question about the game, I will issue a yellow card. That will be a warning. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ they say rather unenthusiastically.

‘A second question will see me produce a red card and you will be ordered from the room and back to work.’

‘Who made you Caesar?’ shouts some smart-alec from the back of the room where a group from accounts has gathered. Never trust those number-crunchers. They prefer work to play.

I eject three people in the first ten minutes, just to send a message. Two go for questions about whether Hope Solo is wearing eyeliner, another is marched back to his desk for describing France’s Thiney as attractive. Treason if ever there was a case of it.

The whole event is a huge success. I have the boss’s ear for nearly two hours, explaining the rules to him (again and again and again) and throwing in the odd critique of my fellow workers. You know the kind of stuff, pointing out which ones didn’t get up and over-react when Lauren Cheney scored the opener. Fingering the malcontents who were whispering aloud that France was dominating the second half for long spells.

The only uncomfortable moment (apart from when he hugs me a little too long every time we score) comes when we are leaving the conference room.

‘Weren’t you complaining that Abby Wambach was having a poor game just before she scored?’ asks the boss.

‘No, no, that was Jeff from Marketing who obviously knows nothing about the game!’

‘Are you sure? I thought you were the one saying she was making no impact at all midway through the second half.’

‘Naw, you misheard me, what I actually said was Pia Sundhage is the greatest Swedish import since Dolph Lundgren.'

All it takes is a mention of his favourite actor from the eighties to distract him.