As promised

Do you remember when I promised to give you a blog entry about world cup what I'd typed...

The 2 greatest things God gave us were the World Cup and holidays.

'You pull on a shirt. It's a booking. You don't go ten yards. It's a booking. You look cross-eyed at the referee. It's a booking.' Mick McCarthy, 14.57, Saturday

Luis Figo has been kicked in the face. No one was booked. Figo has been giventhe scar across his cheek that has, always, rightfully, been due to Figo.

Mick McCarthy provides the commentary like a miserablist, more righteously than Geoff Boycott in the pub.

Clash of Civilisations

Inside the gravitational field of the supremely modern Olympiastadion, the Brazilian fans were pulled, dancing, towards the turnstiles. The carnival of yellow, bouncing like Drogba at a corner, singing like Pavarotti, drumming like Brazilians. Oh wait. They are Brazilians. Just like you pictured them.

On the balcony, with the Croats, people rush to see the myth. With faces painted red and white, hair as short as Dennis Wise, people hard as Vinnie Jones. The giant tablecloth looks down on Brazilian dancing custard, and pulls out an air-horn

HOONNKK! HONNKK! HONNKKKKK!

All is quiet.