World Cup stalkers

I was sitting peacefully on a bench yesterday when an Italian architect came and sat beside me. (I knew he was a architect, because all the Italians here are architects. I don’t know why.) He asked me where the nearest supermarket was, but I knew this was just what chessplayers refer to as the Berlin Opening: he just wanted to know who I thought was going to win the football. The only way I can conceive of getting away from this kind of behaviour is to sit out the whole thing in gay bars, but that too has its hazards.

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