Croatia get a spanking

The living room was pure, unadulterated chaos, reeking of lukewarm lager, salt-and-vinegar dust, and absolute euphoria. On the telly, the final whistle blew, sealing a proper walloping for Croatia, and Govna was already up on his feet, sloshing half a pint across the carpet while bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"Told ya! Absolutely dismantled 'em, haven't we?!" Govna roared, pointing a half-eaten pork pie at the screen like a weapon of mass tactical analysis.

Right beside him, Dannyboy went completely airborne, vaulting off the footstool and knocking a bowl of peanuts into orbit. "Get in! Absolutely spanked, mate! Sent back down the tarmac without a paddle!"

In the corner, squeezed into a armchair that was fighting for its structural life, sat Ye Old Large Lad. He didn't move an inch—mostly because physics wouldn't allow it—but issued a deep, resonant rumble of approval that shook the floorboards. "Proper football, that. None of this tippy-tappy nonsense. Just hit 'em hard and wrap it up by half-time."

Over by the radiator, Stg. Salty stood at full military attention, holding a rolled-up TV guide like an officer’s baton. "Maintain formation, you blithering lunatics!" Salty barked, inspecting the room like a drill sergeant whose squad had just won the World Cup. "That third goal was a tactical masterclass! Defensive line held, wing-backs pressed, enemy neutralized! Dannyboy, pick up those peanuts before I court-martial you!"

Meanwhile, WhizzAir was practically buzzing around the ceiling fan, running laps around the sofa with arms stretched wide like a jetliner, making engine noises every time England hit the net on the replay. "Cleared for departure! Direct flight straight to the finals, no baggage fees attached, buzzzz!"

From the shadows near the kitchen door, Winkz just smirked, casually cracking open a fresh tin and giving the room a slow, knowing nod. "Never in doubt, was it lads? Saw it in the stars at minute five. Pure calculated brilliance."

Out from the kitchen marched Sarah and Susan in terrifying, synchronized perfection, carrying fresh trays of curry sauce and chips while rolling their eyes in complete unison at the sheer display of ape-man energy.

"If one more of you spills lager on this rug," Sarah warned, setting the tray down with razor-sharp precision.

"...you’ll be sweeping the yard in your socks till Tuesday," Susan finished, not missing a single beat as they both pinched a chip and took a seat, secretly grinning at the final scoreline.

And right in the middle of it all, perched precariously on the arm of the sofa, McFinleyyy was losing his absolute mind in a thick, breathless tirade, waving a chip in the air. "Did ye see that back three?! Absolute shambles from the Croates! My granddad’s mobility scooter has a tighter turning circle than their center-half! Pure comedy, absolutely glorious spanking!"

The whistles kept blowing on the screen, the volume was on maximum, and the Bigsaltdog crew settled into the glorious, noisy triumph of a job thoroughly well done.