Reports trickle in from the land of tequila and tumbleweed that the World Cup festivities have taken a decidedly grim turn. Four souls are now pushing up the cacti after celebrations in Mexico City descended into what can only be described as a piñata party hosted by the Grim Reaper. Sources say the dead were caught in a stampede of euphoria that collapsed into a stampede of panic, leaving a trail of sombreros and shattered dreams.
The Foreign Office, in a display of breathtaking understatement, has issued a warning: avoid hotspots. As if the average British tourist, fueled by cheap lager and a misguided sense of adventure, is capable of identifying a hotspot from a hole in the ground. They will likely wander into a cartel shootout thinking it's a particularly aggressive Mariachi band.
The tragedy is a stark reminder that football, for all its unifying glory, can turn a crowd into a cattle stampede faster than you can say 'It's coming home.' Meanwhile, the survivors are no doubt nursing their wounds with a bottle of cheap brandy, wondering if next time they should just watch the match down the pub. But let's be honest, they probably won't.
The allure of a good riot is too strong for the British psyche, especially when there's an opportunity to get outrageously sunburned and mistaken for a drunk raccoon. So as the bodies are counted and the flags are furled, the message is clear: stay home, crack open a warm beer, and let the beautiful game play out on a telly in a safe, brown, and wildly unspectacular living room. Your liver might thank you, even if your sense of adventure does not.
