Is there a Pattern Emerging?

Great shows last week Kid and, if the good Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, we can look forward to a pride of great shows this week.
Tommy my cat and I sat on two burros, wearing ponchos and sombreros, cheering on Mexico, our adopted team in the world cup. When the match ended in a one all draw, I looked at Tommy and said,
"Well, Senor Tommy, is that one point gained, or two points lost?"
Tommy bared his teeth, gave a horrible, Mexican laugh and yelled,
"Points! I don't need your stinking points.I spit on your feelthy points!"
I would not describe Tommy as a football hooligan, but the feline does have all the attributes of a football gulpin. I watched as Tommy dismounted from his burro and rearranged the fork of his little lovat trousers. I could see he was angry. I decided to let the feline cool down, so I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him under the cold tap for seventeen and a half minutes. (As recommended in the Geneva convention for wayward cats and dogs.)
"Tommy," I said, "I heard the South African crowd chant, "Bafana. Bafana." What does-Bafana mean Tommy?"
Tommy gave himself a shake, sending water and fleas everywhere and replied,
"Bafana is a Zulu word. A literal translation of Bafana,Bafana would be, Boys, Our boys."
I looked out the window and said,
"Tommy, come and look at the gang of little hooded Bafanas throwing stones at our condemned hovel!"
To which Tommy wittily replied,
"Once you've seen one hooded Bafana in Belfast, you've seen them all."
Like people who wear watches, Tommy and I found ourselves with time on our hands,
so we decided to channel hop, in the hope we would see the fat man singing, "Go Compare."
Imagine our joy, when in the space of fifty minutes, we came upon the fat, mustachioed Italian tenor roaring, "GO COMPARE", 257 TIMES!!!
Our coffee mugs runneth over and we gave praise and glory to bonny Lord Laird. (The Thane of Tullywhisker)
After the England America match I looked at Tommy and said,
"Another one all draw. I see a pattern emerging here."
Tommy, who was dressed as a miniature uncle Sam, complete with stove pipe hat said,
"I claim a moral victory and as for your goalkeeper, he really was a bit--green."
I stood there, dressed as a pearly Queen and said,
"Tommy, I hope this will not affect the special relationship between Britain and the US."
"Not at all," drawled Tommy, "to America, Britain will always be "Special". Did we not take you by the hand and lead you into two wars in the Middle East?"
I stood there with tears in my eyes, wax in my ears, no brains in my head and yelled.
"GOD BLESS AMERICA!"
I crawled, grovelled abjectly in a sycophantic, Uriah-Heapish way and muttered,
"Sorry about the trouble with BP."
"Don't worry kid," drawled Tommy, "your British bees can pee in the Gulf of Mexico anytime."
I yelped like a poodle and rolled over on my back so my tummy could be tickled.