Andy's Glasses

Fantastic news: crabs can hear!!! Yeah, really, those creepy, side-walking little tasty crustacea (and sometimes scarily big crustacea) can hear things. Scientists have shown. Like they needed to spend ‘our’ hard-earned dollars on that. Have they never seen Finding Nemo? Not only can crabs hear, they can speak, dance, drive cars and parachute out of a space satellite whilst singing a duet with a sabre-toothed mammoth! But no, some polytechnic in Nebraska or Arizona (or even possibly somewhere near the sea; I didn’t bother with too many details) sat around, probably stoned, and ‘brainstormed’ the idea of discovering if crabs had auditory senses. And they fucking do. They are sensitive to the noise of predator fishes. They hate the sounds made by their mothers-in-law about being a useless layabout wasting their life away being a bottom-feeder, and they really like Nirvana.

I wonder what crabs would make of Philip Neville? The ex-footballer for Manchester United, Everton and Ingerlund who’s been whisked into service by the BBC as a ‘commentator’. His qualifications for the job: he played a lot of football; he has a brother who is very clever and a great pundit on the game; errrrr… and he played a lot of football. Therefore must be able, competent and interesting enough to entertain the 75million people (approximately) who watched England lose to Italy on Saturday. Never commentated before, but heh: ‘how hard can it be????’

To hard for Phil, that’s for sure. He was soooooo dull, so boring, so tedious that there were 400 complaints. Even a police officer tweeted in that Neville was keeping the streets quiet by sending people to sleep. Montonous. Terrible. Northern.

Because being good at something is never an indicator that you can teach it, explain it or commentate on it in any meaningful or entertaining way. The BBC should have tested the man. A dry run. Here Phil, commentate on those people over there getting on a bus, let’s see what’cher made of. But no, in at the deep end and he drowned.

The whole pundit thing is odd. Punditry is being part of the media, not about being a sporting star. Yet they like stars over and above people who might be brilliant observers or even, heaven forbid, mildly entertaining.

Thierry Henry was a brilliant brilliant footballer (until that terrible and unforgivable handball goal) and he’s pretty. So he sits there, all cool and cardigans (sales of which have rocketed since the World Cup started) but says precisely nothing. He mumbles a bit but contributes nothing to the discussion. Though he does ‘sultry and bored’ better than anyone.

Whereas Alan Shearer is more exitable, but simply fails to express himself in any way that could be considered ‘communication’ with other humans. Maybe he’s there for the crabs.

Robbie Savage is there as a clown. A natural Welsh speaker, he too struggles to say anything that’s even worth trying to understand or translate.

I love Clarence Seedorf. Probably because he was a brilliant player right up to his retirement at 73 years old.

And although Gary Linneker appears as ‘the complete package’, being such a great footballer that he even played for Spurs, being handsome, intelligent and witty as well as knowledgable, he just comes across as rather smug half the time. Or at half time. Either way.

So here’s the rules for employing pundits:

No northerners, they are too boring and dim
No ex-Arsenal players, they’re too Arsenalish
No Liverpudlians (as opposed to other northerners) because they can’t be understood.
Same for Scots and Geordies
No Mancunians because after 7 seconds you want to slit your wrists.
The French are too pouty

So that leaves the Dutch and Brazillians. And Gary Linneker. And all the women in the world. Where are they when you need them?

Bring back Baddeil and Skinner.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

Let’s all strive to keep politics out of sport. And by ‘sport’, I mean football. They simply don’t go together. One is a bunch of misguided fools running round like headless chickens kicking anything that gets in their way, and the other is football. Thus we must always strive to keep sport pure of the evils that politicians perpetrate on behalf of their citizens. The Nigerians that played in the dullest of 0-0 draws last night against Iran were NOT the ones who kidnapped 250 schoolgirls for having the audacity to go to school, these were different Nigerians. Peaceful ones who may even believe in education, even if they tend to act like they’re totally unfamiliar with the word, let alone the concept. And these weren’t the Nigerians who sent me all those lovely emails offering me millions of dollars if I’d ‘just’ help them defraud their own government.

And playing Iran. The most evil nation in the world. Until yesterday when they suddenly became friends of America, possibly allies and almost bed-fellows in the new war against Iraqi bad stuff. Like the Sunni militia steaming in from Syria murdering, killing, raping and pillaging for all they’re worth and its not looking too good over there. Again. So just to clarify: America long ago funded and armed Iraq to fight the enemy that was Iran. Then, having armed them to the teeth, Sadam Hussain was deemed a terrible man and so the Americans went in to depose the tyrant they had themselves created. Leaving Iran a very dangerous place where they’re desperately trying to make nuclear armaments. Until yesterday when they became ‘the lesser of evils’ and have been conscripted by their enemies (now ‘friends’) the Americans to combat the new terror in Iraq. Ya got that? Easy.

Then there’s Germany. Massively victorious against stupid, stupid, stupid Portugal. Or stupid Pepe. Who hasn’t realised, despite all his red cards for Real Madrid, that head-butting a player, even gently, softly, almost nicely, will probably, in many instances, get you sent off. Tosser. The match was watched by Angela Merkel who became a bit more Angela Smirkel with each German goal.

And then there’s England. Nothing political there. Just desperation. And ‘must win’ games. Thursday. Uruguay. Do we keep Rooney? Due to the flack the tubby little striker has been taking, loyal wife Colleen has upped sticks and with the 2 kids, her parents, and just a meager 15 suitcases, has moved over to Brazil for the next weeks. I hope the suitcases are filled with books about how to score lots of goals. But somehow doubt it. Just a loyal wife and her summer wardrobe. I’m comin’ Wayne!!!!!

Nothing political about the Rooneys.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Personally, I blame Angelina. Or, rather, Dame Angelina, now we’ve restructured the entire, 2 thousand-year-old honours system to accommodate a foreign person within the realms of those ennobled by Her Maj. Just goes to show, the quickest way to a medal is to get an Oscar. As Sir Daniel Day Lewis just proved as well. Even if you’re not British, like Angelina.

But what she has done is redefine ‘rape’. Not so much redefine it as, er, well, er, make it illegal. No, make it more illegal than it was. Make it a very very VERY bad thing. And make it unacceptable in war. Even if its always been unacceptable in war. Now, when power-crazed, victorious armies lay waste to the rural villages of the vanquished, rather than indulge in the time-honoured ‘rape, pillage, plunder’, they will stop! And reconsider their intended actions in the light of several of Angelina’s speeches, which they would have seen on the news if they had tvs and spoke English. Speeches in wonderful, historic and beautiful venues, given to wonderful, beautiful and caring exceptionally rich people who all agree, in a rich and not-at-all-patronising way, that rape in the sort of situation that no-one present hearing these speeches will ever have the misfortune to witness, is a very naughty crime that must be stopped. So they’re all agreed at the Guildhall/White House/Grand Palace Strasburgh/wherever rich people meet and warring soldiers don’t.

So then the entire framework of social/sexual interaction is brought into question. If a Sudanese Islamist freedom fighter can’t rape his ‘spoils of war’ then can two students from Exeter Uni snog in the Union bar? Logical next step to the question.

And a journalist has now suggested that before kissing, permission should be asked for and unambiguously granted. To avoid misunderstandings. To avoid… well, to pretty much avoid physical contact, I’d think, after so much passion-killing. Though really, if we’re looking to create what is in effect a ‘kissing contract’, prior to any kissage that may follow on or be dependent on said contract, once validated, to be enforcable thereafter and henceforth in accordance with agreement and sufficient poutage…

Ideally you need a third party. To witness. Just as a safeguard against fraudulent contracts. Preferably a lawyer. Or two, really, one each, for impartiality. And perhaps a judge, adjudicator or arbitrator, just to ensure fair play by all the others concerned.Maybe a clerk of the court, jury, reporters, administrators and security guards. Isn’t Saturday Night at the Movies going to be fun with that lot in tow?

And all that, just to replace the system we used, back in the day, which was ‘gin & tonic’. And repeat. And repeat…

According to aforementioned journo-person, ‘attempted kissing’ is something akin to assault (with a deadly weapon; vis-a-vis lips). And who said ‘romance is dead’???

FYI; the only place where unauthorised kissing and rape are still acceptable activities are in goal celebrations at the world cup. Or so it appears.

GET A ROOM!!!!

A xxxx

28 years ago today, Melissa took me to be her lawful wedded whatever. To have and to hold, from that day forth, fifth, sixth and 28th, through sickness and health and 7 World Cups, and counting, for richer or poorer, Love Thy Neighbour. Morecombe & Wise. Til death us do part. Some sitcom of the 60s. Amen. I now pronounce you one thing and another.

Oddly enough, I can remember very little of the actual wedding day, but almost everything about the 1986 World Cup which was playing throughout that summer. Maradona’s ‘hand-of-god’ was the ‘soundtrack’ to our honeymoon. At one point I thought I’d married Terry Butcher.

But the years have been kind. To me, at least. Though in terms of the England and the World Cup, its just the SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY. So much for the ‘we can bloody win it’ spirit, why did no-one think to tell that to the team? Stupid, rookie mistake. We, the population of the whole of England, have unanimously decided that this tournament is ours to lose and, for once we are all in total agreement. This is not like European elections, not like local council rubbish, Big Brother households, Best Voice in the Kardashian Home, this is totally everybody. Believing, for once, in our national chances at greatness on an international platform. Everyone in the whole country. Well, everyone I spoke to yesterday anyway. AND NO-ONE TOLD THE FRIKKIN TEAM. No wonder we lost. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Anyway, its my anniversary, though more importantly (apparently) its Mel’s anniversary, so we’re off walking on the Heath, going to the most expensive ‘Affordable Art Fair’ that’s ever been, and doing whatever it takes to keep me away from the football. So I simply don’t have the time to speak to you any more.

My name’s Andy and I haven’t watched football for 14 hours.

Happy anniversary.

A xxxx

Its not the magnitude of the Dutch win over the holders, Spain, last night that is amazing. Nor that Australia lost to Chile, which everyone except the most devoted or drunk (or both, as is normally the case) Aussie knew was inevitable. Not even that Brasil (note that I spell it the ‘proper’ way, like a native… of Hackney; but in my heart I’m Brazilian) won their first match after a shaky start and needed a very dodgy penalty award to do so.

No.

What’s amazing is just how quickly the World Cup has simply taken over life, as we know it. The newspapers lead with it, every conversation starts with it and every appointment has to be cleared with the fixtures before agreement. And after just a few games, its so fantastically exciting.

The word on the street is that Spain are finished. Defeated. Dead, done, dusted, disgraced and destined to depart for de homeland devoid of delay, discussion or de… oh bollox, enough ‘d’s. Because even if they win two of their group matches (surely even Spain can beat Australia), they now have a shitty goal difference and in all likelihood Holland and Chile will go through. Assuming Spain don’t just do ‘a France’ when they were champions and failed to score one single goal in their group matches. Leaving lots of questions unanswered. The main one being: ‘where do I get the next plane to Paris?’

Spain simply crumbled after a good start. And with all that talent. Whereas Holland, who lost to Spain in the last World Cup final, just played the dream for the entire second half. Robin van Persie’s first goal was that rarest of things: a header that everyone is talking about. Because it came from a breathtaking 60-odd yard pass and was pure genius in its execution. There are very few players that could actually head a ball in that manner, let alone have the presence of mind to work out what needed to be done. Only Van Persie, probably Pele, me and Alan Gilzean…

And that, normally, would have been ‘the best goal of *******’ (fill in yourself: match, group, tournament, whatever) but Arjen Robben scored a couple himself and the second was a thing of incredible beauty. Better than Maradona’s against England in 1986, I feel, for 2 reasons. Firstly because it wasn’t against England. And secondly because Robben may be a cry-baby at times and diver extraordinaire but he’s not a dirty, greasy, cheating, handballing, coke-snorting little shit.

And so tonight. Eng-er-land. We can do it. WE CAN DO IT. WE CAN REALLY DO ITTTTT!!!!!!! And we just need to beat Italy as a start.

Happy 3rd Day (of the World Cup)

A xxxx

Tuesday night there was an ‘event’ by a contact lens company. So we went along. The lectures were kind of lecturish, the food distinctly average to dull. The crowd was, essentially rent’an’optician and the lenses in question, nothing new. There were no great freebies to be had; no ipads given away, not even writing pads, not even a frikkin pen.

Then why would we go? To an event that was never likely to bring rewards and was destined to be the kind of event we turn down on a monthly basis using the ‘life’s too short’ card?

Because this was held at the Sceince Museum. In South Kensington. Where all the world’s best museums are kept. And in fact where all the best museums in the world are free to enter, even for foreigners, tourists, UKIP voters and other lowlifes. They did start charging for the Science Museum and the Natural History and the Victoria & Albert a few years back but there was outcry and they all reverted to free again. I’m going to try ‘outcry’ at the petrol station next week, nothing to lose there.

So basically, you can go there any time, for nothing. Hmmmm. Though obviously you never do go because its too convenient and too, er, cheap.
But what you can’t do is have the place all to yourself. Ahhhhhhhhh. Because it closes at 6 and our ‘thing’ started at 6.30 in a really cool room upstairs, with what must have been the most scientifically-tested to be the most uncomfortable seats in the land. I mean they wouldn’t have just ‘any’ seats at the Science Museum, would they? If they were that hard and numbness-inducing, there had to be a proper, law-of-physically innovative reason for them to be there, at the place that heralds every innovation in the physical world.

But then we could run free, run wild, around the museum, with no guards there or anything. I could have just waked off with Apollo 10 no-one would have noticed. And there were cars and engines and all kinds of fab stuff, all on the ground floor; you have to be a proper, non-paying guest to see other floors, but that’s great and wonderful. And now I want to go back and see more.

Though not til after the World Cup. It started last night. In Brazil, in case you’ve missed that bit. And although there were reservations about… well, just about everything, once the whistle blows and it all kicks off, it suddenly becomes lifted. From the ‘waste of money, cause of deaths, social upset and unrest, strikes and protests, awful stuff’, its suddenly just becomes THE WORLD FUCKING CUP!!! and everything else is forgotten. For a while.

Very excited now.

Come on… oh, who cares?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As ever, there’s been some truly remarkable music-on-tv of late. They had a docu-thing all about the Eagles. Early, middle, late, pre-trial, mid-split, post-litigation, apres rehab, the usual. So much that it was in 2 parts, both long and luxurious and easy on the ear.

On Saturday night it was Wham night on BBC2. Ahh brilliant. Wham! Who I remember as being a bit Club Tropicana, a little Take me to the Edge of Heaven, and overdosing on leather jackets, brilliant white teeth and Georgios Michaelovich prancing round on stage like God’s very own personal gift to every red-blooded woman in the world. The gay men also loved him but only because he empitomised the heterosexual dream. Once George actually came out, the allure was gone for them, oddly. And the girls were all tragically disappointed that the dream would never become a reality. This white knight was never going to rescue them from their tower, he was in the shed with their gardener. But of course George went on to big things as a solo artist, because he was a talent, with a fab voice and great skills.

So I must have just kind of revised the history in my mind and thought Wham! were some proto-supergroup instead of just some silly pop duet consisting of an impossibly handsome Greek geezer and the guitar holding, slightly sickly, pretty worthless, ‘Other C**t’. Oh, him. Yes I remember him, sort of standing there on the stage, getting in George’s way, the Other C**t. But they weren’t a supergroup, they were pop bollox and this BBC retrospective programme only lasted half an hour. Thirty minutes. Clive Dunn got 45 minutes and he only ever sang ‘Grandad’. And they didn’t even play Careless Whisper, because George sang it as a solo artist, even though, ironically, it was actually written by the Other C**t. Odd eh? That’s why when George was off being the biggest celebrity in the universe, the O.C. did nothing. He didn’t need to because he wrote Careless Whisper and must get about a zillion quid a year in royalties.

I met George Michael once. No, not on Hampstead Heath, you horrible horrible person. But many many years ago, before George had er, ‘revealed his true self to the world’ I went to a party at my mate Dom’s. And for some reason, probably that Dom was gay in every single respect other than that he was totally heterosexual, George was coming to the party. A few other people were there, can’t imagine why, Dom’s never been very popular, which you’d understand if you know him, but it was crowded and fun and then and then AND THEN…

Then in walked this rather small, pretty nondescript geezer with a terrible complexion and a monobrow. Ok, maybe not a monobrow, I seriously can’t remember. I think I’d fully expected the house lights to dim, the floodlights to fire up and this massive SUPERSTAR to show his ever-grinning super-white teeth to the crowd, bare-chested and dancing his way round the room singing “Babeee, I’m you-ou-our Maaa-aan…” But no. He just stood there looking a bit shy and a touch creepy and left the superstar duties to me. Well, whatever. I avoided the ‘you look much more tall/bright/handsome/normal/smooth/confident on’t telly’ conversation but everyone’s disappointment was almost tangible.

I’ve never forgiven him though I don’t think this affected his career too profoundly. But 30 minutes for Wham!???

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Comedy was invented by Monty Python. Everyone knows that. Before the words: ‘and now for something completely different’ were uttered, no-one had ever laughed. There had been no jokes, no funny stuff, no nuffink.

Ok, comedy’s old. People want to laugh, its a lift from the mundane, from the burden, from the tedium. So the Romans entertained humorously, and if the comedians weren’t funny enough, they’d be fed to the lions; fair enough. Shakespeare was a master of comedy, both with a very subtle light touch and with the more slapstick, visual fools like Bottom and Falstaff.

Everyone loves to laaaaarrrfffff. Except the extremely religious. Not much fun in the bible.

And there was music hall, and there was Broadway and the Marx Brothers and the 1950s/60s axis of Jewish New York humour, with Sid Caesar and Mel Brooks and Woody Allen and Neil Simon and there was Lenny Bruce. Whilst over here we had Carry On films; same joke put into 59 different contexts, but it worked in a slapsticky, smutty, oops my skirt seems to have been ripped off by that nail, kind of way. Stand up comedy was basically telling mother-in-law jokes, golfing stories, peripheral kind of stuff.

And if comedy was painting pictures, these guys were the impressionists, those who take reality and give it their own signature, blur the edges just slightly.

Then Monty Python came along and they were the full Salvador Dali. They were the surrealist masters of laughter. And in fact still are.
But in the late 70s I first became aware of the Comedy Store; a place operating on Darwinian principles. If the comedian was good he stayed at the mike, if he was dull or bad he’d be shouted down and the next one took over. Brutal. Survival of the funniest. And the compare was a man called Alexi Sayle. Who was funny. Really Funny, with a capital F. And he became bigger than the venue so along with the best of the new breed of comedy from the Comedy Store, the Comic Strip was set up. At Raymond’s Review Bar, Soho’s oldest strip joint, hence the name. I went there sometime around 1980 (if you remember dates then you weren’t really ‘there’) and was simply blown away.

These comedians were young! They weren’t wearing suits and ties and holding glasses of whisky! They were fucking swearing!!!! And they spoke against the government and they hated the Prime Minister and they were anarchists and antichrists and a-a-a-a-… alternative. That’s what we’ll call it: alternative comedy. And it was young and our parents hated it and there’s no more acid test than that.

At the Comic Strip was Alexi, and French & Saunders, Nigel Planer, Peter Richardson, Keith Allen and The Dangerous Brothers. Adrian Edmonson and Rik Mayall. Who spent a 10 minute set just, basically, hitting each other over the head with all manner of rubberised hammers and cleavers and tv sets and concrete slabs, et cetera, et cetera. Sounds daft, slapstick, silly, but it somehow transcended that, and they were still doing it years later on The Young Ones, by which time Ben Elton had joined their tribe.

And now Rik is dead. The People’s Poet is dead. And that is indeed a tragedy. Shakespearian or otherwise.

Happy Sad Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve just realised that this could in fact be the last World Cup tournament ever played.

Sorry, THE LAST WORLD CUP TOURNAMENT EVER PLAYED!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So events like the tradition of washing your horses in the Eden River in Cumbria for the Appleby Horse Fair, which dates back to 1685, will have to step up to the mark and replace what used to be ‘the world cup’. Harder to gamble, I suppose. I mean, the horse will either come out of the water cleaner or not; can’t get very good odds on that one.

Or there’s the Vogalonga in Venice where people row their boats 30kms, starting at St Mark’s Square. Can’t get much more exciting than that. Maybe Lionel Messi can become a gondaleer before 2018.

But you see that’s part of the problem. Argentina. Using the World Cup as a polticial platform. Their players holding up a big banner proclaiming ‘Las Malvinas son Argentinas’. And even in a funny language, that’s still not correct. The Falkland Islands aren’t Argentina’s, their ours. Mine. English as Morris Dancing. British as a Pearly King and Queen. Though they happen to be stuck out there in the frigid wastelands of the South Atlantic right next to Argentina. That’s not the point. In 1981 Maggie Thatcher went to war with Diego Maradona and won. It was one-nil to us and no handballs.

Anyway, the World Cup is simply not a place for political statements. No. You simply have to make your statements before the tournament is set. And with all the fuss about Qatar 2022, which is simply never going to happen, it will just have to be re-bid, but with all that bother, no-one’s even mentioned 2018. In Russia. Oh my. Everyone’s favourite Most Militaristically Aggressive Country in the World. Who by the next World Cup will have ‘taken’ back into their fold, certainly Ukraine, probably Belarus, a few -istans, possibly Czekoslovakia, Bosnia, Serbia, half of Germany, most of Poland possibly a bit of France too. They are nasty people, a repressive regime still ruled by the secret police, gays are banned and its a super place to be.

And before that we have to make it through 2014, to get to the end of Brazil. Which hasn’t started. And may in fact never do so as half of Brazil is on strike. And the other half died in the overly-hasty construction of all the brand new stadia build at a cost of zillions in a country where the average weekly wage is 50 cents (US). And before anyone starts on the ‘legacy’ trail; the actual legacy of the World Cup will be a bunch of super duper stadia that no-one uses and no-one can afford to convert to housing which is so desperately needed.

The metro workers are on strike in San Paolo, have been for 3 days and don’t intend to stop for thursday’s opening match in that city. The President has said that ‘people can walk’. Then England play 3 days later. And its about 800 miles to Manaus. Better start walking now then.

Do you remember when we used to have a World Cup every 4 years? Ahhhh the memories…

Happy monday

A xxxx

We’re at t-minus-four-days from the World Cup kicking off. Brazil playing Croatia in San Paulo, or ‘the tale of two Eduardos’ as I like to think of it. Both of them treacherous, two-timing, double-dealing bastards. For the ex-Goon was born and raised in Rio, then at 15 moved to Zagreb. And that’s 15 years. If it was 15 days, weeks or months, I could understand his national identity crisis. But at 15 you’re a Brazilian. I was and I was raised in Hackney and Essex. But Brazillianism was in my blood.

Anyway, Eduardo, played for Dinamo Zagreb and declared himself a Croatian. Probably because access to the Croatian national team is somewhat less competitive than to that of the Brazilian one. And Eduardo has promised to sing both national anthems on Thursdsay. Like the 90,000 strong crowd are turning up to listen to the bugger sing and could give a shit anyway. The Brazillians will hate him just the same. I know I do.

The Boateng brothers (famous circus family) are another case in point, or perhaps the same case in two points. These boys were born in Germany to Ghanaian parents. Brother Kevin-Prince (ex-Spurs and many, many, many others) plays for Ghana, whilst brother Jerome has embraced his inner kraut and wears the German colours at international level.

But these are just pesky foreigner types and we must at this point consider who is actually going to win the World Cup. Some geezer (ok, in all likelihood a pesky foreigner type) will hold aloft the Jules Rimet trophy at the Maracana in Rio. Assuming its finished. The stadium that is. Should be ready by then, if not they’ll play on the rubble where the grass will eventually be and put some shirts down as goalposts.

Roy Hodgson reckons England have a great chance of winning. I reckon they have a Lib-Dems chance at the Euros of winning this cup. But I’m always a bit pessemistic about our chances. Mainly because we never, ever, ever, never do very well. Since 1966 anyway. And our two matches this weekend, the friendlies, were both drawn. Which is not great. Because if you draw all your matches, you generally don’t get through the group stage. And if you draw after than they its all about penalties. And if we’ve shown nothing else in the last 48 years, what we do definitely know is that WE ARE SHIT AT PENALTY SHOOT-OUTS.

So England won’t win. And the rule is, if we’re not going to win it then we should get out as early as possible so that all us English poeple can then really start to just enjoy the brilliant football available without worrying whether Lampard, Gerrard or both, are responsible for the lastest fuck-up.

You have to fancy Brazil to win; home advantage, super football, always a total joy to watch. Show-offs the world over can unite behind their stylish play.

If not, Argentina look good, though Messi never does his thing for country as he does for club. Spain? Possibly now too old and insufficient young replacements for their all-conquering team of late. Germany are always a worry, not just in football, but kind of everything. Italy no good, France not good enough. But Belgium. Oooooh, Belgium. Must be a worthy outside bet. Last time’s beaten finalists Holland? Unlikely, they completely lost the plot last time and imploded into an orgy of violence worthy of Tarantino. And how about Ivory Coast? Loads of Toures, a Drogba and a few other old men of note.

Oh well, we shall wait and see,

happy Sunday

A xxxxx