Thursday, June 29, 2006

So, Whaddya Reckon Then?

It's the eve of the quaterfinals stage, and I'm quite excited about it. I'm looking forward to the Germany - Argentina match tomorrow, although I fear that I won't be able to catch the first half of the match. I'll probably watch the the Ukraine-Italy game, too, although the prospect of watching those two rather ponderous teams grind and grimace away at each other for 90 minutes or more doesn't greatly appeal to me. I've got a sneaking feeling that the England Portugal game might be rather lively, though, and Brazil-France should be worth staying in for.

I'm surprised to see that Brazil are the favourites. Surely, Argentina look like a much stronger team? I usually have quite a soft spot for France, but I thought Spain deserved to win the game a couple of days ago and, apart from Zidane, the French team seem to me, almost as brain achingly, teeth grindingly dull, plodding and unimaginative as the English. And, anyway, that Henry's a cheating git.

I must admit that I'm starting to waver about over England. I know. Yes, I know. If they beat Portugal on Sunday (which is by no means a foregone conclusion as some of those banging on about the Portugal team's red card induced problems seem to suggest) I don't know what I shall do. I just have to keep reminding myself about the various horrors that are sure to materialise should England win the cup. For one thing, if England win, nobody will bloody well shut up about it for at least 40 years and we shall be force-fed endless replays of the winning goal (no doubt, complete with witless commentary voice-over from Motty) until Kingdom Come. For another thing, we're sure to be subjected to a number of state celebrations of the great occasion which are sure to drive me mad. I can see it now - the sea of flag waving, gawd bless yer ma'am, patriots all turned out to see Becks and the boys receive some sort of commemorative tat from the Queen outside Buck Palace while a skeletal Posh and other fooballers' wives totter around somewhere in the background amongst the Establishment big wigs and chinless wonders. Ah, so proud to be English. Worst of all, just think about Tony Blair's big fucking grin.

Still, that Joe Cole's quite good, isn't he.

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