Young nine-year old Sean and his dad Pat are seated together on a sofa in their living room watching the UEFA European Cup Final between Barcelona the hot favourites and Juventus on the tele. The boy balances a football on his knees. With five minutes left in the game and the scoreline 2-1 to Barcelona dad's nerves, like his finger nails, are frayed. The following conversation takes place.
Dad: How the hell did he miss that! You'd think with a wage of two hundred friggin' grand a week he would know how to keep the bloody ball down.
Son: Is that more than you earn Da?
Dad: You could say that.
Son: How much more?
Dad: Comparing my wages to Pirlo's is like comparing elephants with peanuts.
Son: Why peanuts?
Dad: Because that's what they pay me, son.
Son: I can play better than Messi.
Dad: Sure you can... but you might find you will be able to run faster if you'd stop eating us out of house and home.
Son: It's over. Told you Barcelona would win! What's with the big face?
Dad: I backed Juventus. Don't go telling your mum.
Son: What happens now Dad?
Dad: They get presented with the cup and medals. Then... their bus takes them back to their luxury Berlin hotel. They get to kiss big, blonde girls without having their faces slapped or having to explain anything to their wives when they get home; probably drink champagne and then get a massage, flop around the pool before the big banquet, drink more champagne, get their photos taken for tomorrow's papers.... count their money.
Son: Then what?
Dad: They have a big party that lasts a week.
Son: What sort of a party?
Dad: They can have anything they want.
Dad: Aye, son.... anything.
Son: Even chocolate cake?
Son: Even chocolate fudge cake!
Dad: Even chocolate fudge cake, Sean. Now go out there and practise your friggin football... while you can still walk.