Mummy beerest

I live in a sleepy corner of the UK which happens to be one of the few areas where there are less than 38000 people to a postage stamp’s worth of land, where shop assistants and bar staff understand the phrase ‘service without a tsssssssssssssk’, and where you’re actually allowed to breathe on public transport. (Speak? Not so much.) It’s nice.

My mother, however, lives 100 miles away, in a place called That London, which for the first 25 years of my life I knew as Home but I now do my best to disown in the same manner that I’ll forever disown my firstborn if he (or she) ever lets the mere thought of supporting the New England Patriots cross his (or her) mind.

As a result, my mother coming to visit is a big occasion. It only happens once every three or four months. She’s on the way here right now, as a matter of fact. Yay! Except it’s not all yay.

Because mother is coming to visit ON THE FIRST SUNDAY OF THE NFL SEASON.

A day where I’ve long planned to mong in front of the TV for nine hours straight while wolfing down my own body weight in pizza, knocking back an ocean of Peroni and unleashing a river of tears upon our sofa/curtains/ArgosrugwhichIfuckinghateanyway when all the hope I’ve mustered that the Fins will have a decent season comes crashing down around Chad Pennington’s creaking OAP ankles inside the first quarter.

Clearly, I don’t want mother to see any of this.

Which basically leaves me with two options.

The first is to be totally truthful about it, welcome her into the world of pain that is Dolphin Fandom, and try to teach her the rules of American Football on the fly. This won’t be the first time I’ve had a crack at the latter, as it goes, although all previous attempts have hit a Brandon Jacobs sized wall as soon as I’ve muttered the words “right: the opening kick-off”. Combine that with the wince-inducing thought of Brett Favre guiding intricate passes past the flailing arms of Jason Allen and you’ll understand this is simply not a viable choice. So...

Option two it is.

It’s My Mother, The Queen night in my sleepy corner of Britain this evening. I (alright, the wife) have given the spare room such a thorough dust and springclean that even Her Maj herself would feel right at home. There’s a pile of eight Drew Barrymore films, of which I clearly own eight too many, by the DVD player and a stack of boy band CDs (I’m not saying which although Boyz II Men might be there) on top of the stereo. A selection of chocolates has been provided along with books about sealife, the uselessless of men and the history of Fenway Park. (She’ll pretend to read this as a nod of courtesy to my Red Sox obsession, bless her.) A poster of Take That, torn from a fifteen year old issue of the now defunct pop magazine Smash Hits, may or may not have made its way onto the wall above her bed. And pizza and wine will be hand delivered by her eldest son in between trips to the bathroom to weep over the Dolphins’ sorry start.

Plan perfected.

It’s going to be great great GREAT.

Until Chad throws his first pick, anyway.