When Miguel climbed on board, we knew they'd lose

I'm sure no one has missed the world cup finals in women's football. Well, actually I missed most of it. But I did manage to note who won, at least. I know who won because on the night of the finals we had Japanese guests at Bloom. They were in Sweden on business, and were taken to Bloom by their colleagues. Let me get this straight before any of you get crazy ideas: we're not O'Leary's. We have no television, we have no beer-spill anywhere, we have no inept waitstaff. What we do have, however, is the ability to stream football live on the computer in the office. For you who haven't been into the office (which was pretty much my home for several years), I'll describe what it looks like. It's a room about the size of a small cupboard. It has a square window that serves as a fire escape. It also has a locker that used to serve as my own private shoe-closet. You can just about swing a cat (or a very small rat) in there. Anyhow, as the Japanese guests had finished their dinner, we thought we'd offer to show the last 20 minutes of the game in the office. How we managed to pile five guests plus Igi and Miguel down there I don't know. All I know is we did. I personally think there's a plastic quality to men that magically appears when having to fit into a small space to watch women playing ball, but on the other hand I do know that three women can fit in the office to change into go-out gear after service. Anyway, everyone but Miguel decided to support the Japanese, and that should have been a clue as to who would win. Poor Miguel thumped the office desk so hard it left a permanent imprint on his fist when the Americans scored. Sadly, it'll be like a tattoo of an ex-girlfriend's name: when the Japanese won, he looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon.
It's funny what a little game of football can do. I can't remember the exact figure of revenue generated for the much-needing Japanese economy, I just know it was vast. Not to mention the pride and joy that comes from winning (not like Charlie Sheen, though. That's bastardizing a perfectly good word if you ask me). We're used to mad expressions of testosterone-fueled happiness when games are on in Stadion, and don't get me wrong: the Japanese were joyous. It's just the kind of joyous that has nothing to do with grabbing one's crotch and yelling obscenities. The only obscenities that night were Miguel's mutterings under his breath.