Out...

Oh well, there goes another World Cup. I could pen an entry about how sport at the top level is more to do with mental attitude and self belief than skill on the ball (which is surely a given in an international footballer) but, well, I can't motivate myself to write it and it would probably miss the target. Time to remove those crosses of St George and put your disturbing jingoistic ways behind you for a couple of years. Farewell, Sven, and your crazy team formation - you've ensured you'll be remembered for your front page action, if at all. I also partly blame television's John Motson for his thoroughly negative frame of mind and tendency to squeal like a small child/piglet whenever Portugal had the ball in the England penalty area - Motty and his ill-timed ramblings were surely the biggest hoo-doo on the team. That and penalties, red cards, Crouch's gangly legs, blah, blah, blah. We ordered a kebab and pizzas and burgers at the end of 90 minutes. Felt quite sorry for the delivery man, who turned up just as the penalty shoot out was taking place. Not sorry enough to invite him in to watch, of course, because these delivery folk always strike me as being a bit unhinged and, frankly, very often too dirty to be handling food that's not protected by styrofoam packaging and brown paper bags. Sent the eldest son to the door to pay with a load of loose change - 50p short of the asking price, we realised later, so at least we were winners tonight. Anyway, Germany v France final, anyone? Now, can the testosterone beat a retreat so that I can get back to the namby pamby arts?