Attacked From All Sides (Football and Robots)

The summer has arrived and, with it, the sound of lawnmowers and hedge-trimmers and all manner of mechanical beast has invaded my world. The long nights have a constant drone, preventing the airport worker from sleeping, and then, on a day off, the hideous noise begins at an early hour. I have a deep phobia of this. The noise mutates in my ears. It starts with the dull groan, but it develops over time to a sharp screaming. It's the sound of death, the sound of violence, and the sound of robots taking over the earth. One day our lawnmowers will camouflage the sound of invasion. Since when did the quiet, meditative act of gardening turn into something that can only be described with the word industrial?

So after three early shifts my mind has been reduced to paranoia and fear. I fear the onset of the World Cup, and every time I see a limp, nylon flag on the car in front of mine I envisage it flying off the flimsy plastic stick and blocking my windscreen. In my mind, this action results in a crash, and the loss of limbs, but never death. Worse, I picture myself trapped in a hospital bed, where the nurses think I want to watch the football. My mangled arms are not strong enough to reach the remote...
The World Cup is an excuse for people to lie around and watch television, stewing themselves in beer and red meat. It's corporate-sponsored escapism for the collective mind of the herd, the "passion" that they display contains no real emotion, only aggression, punching the air with tight, white fists and screaming. What annoys me the most is the pure saturation of the culture, as if everybody wants to join the "festival" of football. Let me put it this way, there would be an outcry if literature festivals or the year-long RSC Shakespeare festival were screened at the same time, in High-Definition, on more than one channel, for highlights to be displayed in the evening, and various different news reports on the state of Patrick Stewart's toe. But why would that be any different? Why do we feel hijacked?

I was working a few weeks ago, and started talking to a passenger who looked very distressed. After some small talk he informed me that he was off to Germany.
"I work for the BBC," he said. "I'm going to cover the World Cup."
"You don't seem too pleased," I commented. He wasn't, he said he hated football, and everything that went with it, but he was needed for the broadcast. He was an engineer, a vital part of the team. He makes sure that the right pictures go to the right places. Everyone will see his work.
"Oh well," I said, trying to put a bright spin on it. "At least on your days off you'll be able to see the country."
"I don't get any days off," he moaned. "I work everyday, for over two months. I'm away from my family. I don't drink, so I won't go on the nights out. All I have is my hotel room and these." He held aloft a bag of ten or eleven books.
It was a wretched sight. I was under the impression that everybody that worked on the sporting events viewed it as a dream job, the jackpot. In reality, they are probably all like this guy, upset and dreading the experience. I could sympathise with him.
Christ, what a mess. The sooner the lawnmower robots attack, the better.