Vodka, vows and va va voom

BEFORE I begin I’d like you to know that the views in this column are my own, and in no way represent those of bona fide female football fans the world over.
On the other hand, I am purely interested in the fact that there is potential for at least 22 fit, sweaty men to be running around in tight shorts. I say potentially because I’m still waiting to see more than five in one game.
Yes, I have embraced Euro 2004 with open arms, especially the bits where we can berate our over-confident neighbours, who have left me reeling with such comments as ‘We’ll beat them in the final’ in true D-Day style of ‘We’ll fight them on the beaches’.
Officially, because I stand to win some pennies if they triumph, I’m supporting the Czechs. My favourites, however are France due to my favourite Thierry. He definitely gives me the va va voom.
The night of that 2-1 peach of a win I watched the Switzerland v Croatia match in preparation, as the last time I’d watched a match was my local team, half-cut on half-time hospitality.
Everyone I have spoken to has said the Swiss match wasn’t exciting but I was on the edge of my seat the whole time — they were gorgeous, although some of the hair cuts were a bit dodgy.
The Croats weren’t bad either. I really couldn’t care less who won.
As for England, maybe I have strange tastes, but other than the highly illustrated Mr Beckham who never really did it for me anyway, I couldn’t pick out anyone else worthy of a mention. OK maybe David James at a push.
There’s just an appeal about footballers, which I suppose is a view shared by many others. Jason Turner (Footballers Wives) also had va va voom and reminded me a lot of my favourite ex.
It’s like men in uniform — even when they’re in their civies, the fact you know they wear one most of the time is enough.
I had a uniform of my own on Saturday night. It shows how much the bride-to-me means to me to know I was wearing a pink top, pink fluffy headband, pink feather boa and a pink fluffy garter (aka hairband) which spent most to of time round my ankle.
A word of advice — a hen night is an excellent pulling tactic, especially if a potty and a group of vodka-fuelled reveller are involved.
At first it was £1-a-kiss for the bride. But after we got further round the club, paying gents could have their pick of any one of the two bridesmaids, various wedding guests, and oh yes, the bride.
It wasn’t long before we were corrupted by a group of visiting sailors.
After missing the boat with navy man number one due to my weakness for Dolly Parton’s ‘9 top 5’, I was soon fed the worst chat up line in the world by one of the shipmates.
Bearing in mind Woody was from Plymouth: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” didn’t quite wash.
He was cute (with dimples) though, and despite my constant, and in hindsight embarrassing saluting, he asked me to dance. Thank the Lord I didn’t break into the Sailor’s Hornpipe in my inebriated state.
I don’t know what happened — either I was not drunk enough or I’ve just been out of the game too long, but I suddenly got really nervous and shy, like he’d just asked me to marry him or something.
I did dance though and it was all good. He admitted that his chat up line was quite lame, but it had worked so he may try it again.
All too soon it came to the bit where he asked for my number, with both of us knowing he would never use it. I’m still waiting.
Well, no I’m not. I really must be getting older — I just can’t be bothered with all that nonsense any more; basing your relationship hopes on 10 snatched minutes and a number swap in a nightclub.
With the wedding a matter of weeks away, my whole life has been turned into fashion hell. I thought I would be really smart and buy my outfit two months ago as I always leave things to the last minute.
But now at the last minute, I’ve taken back the skirt and bag, and have replaced it with a dress, for which I now have to buy new accessories and shoe (such heartache).
I’m hoping that the bride and groom will have perhaps invited an eligible bachelor or six to the event, and I’m not going to be the only one without a plus one after their name.
After feeling empowered last week by crossing Mr Can’t Attach, Won’t Attach off the list, I’m now feeling like an impounded dog, waiting patiently for someone to choose me and take me home.
If France come out of Euro 2004 in the next few weeks, I wonder if Mr Henry would like to join me?
Hey Bobby, what’s French for you wish?