Huit

Finnzy-Bob is eight years old today. 
And how much he has grown in the last year. Undoubtedly due to his big appetite. For food. And for life. 

He is seen here sporting his brand new Equipe de France track suit. 
He has forgiven them for the distress they caused him last summer. I remember vividly how he broke into tears when Portugal scored during extra time. 
The rest of us were a lot more philosophical about it. 

He is big into his football this year. Trying to help Cabinteely Park Celtic lose less convincingly week after week. 

As a supporter, he is not fanatical about a specific club, and pragmatic in his willingness to embrace any club with have a chance of winning something. Anything. This means an eclectic mix of jerseys in the washing machine on any given Monday. 

The art of sitting on the fence is a useful one Finn. And one is never too young to master it. 

You are a fine little chap, with the blond mane that flies in the wind as you run around the place. 

Singing your smelly kangaroo song. 

And we love you very much.

Except when you play that YouYoube video of the eedjit with the three bananas chasing his sausage dog while singing Tequila.