World Cup Day Twenty

Tragedy struck today when the functional Germans took swift care of the flamboyant genius football of the Argentines, defeating them on penalties, just as fucking usual.

There will be those who cheer this development, churning out cliches about "cheating Argies" and "Latin temperament" (yeah, like Cicero), and how the Germans are a winning side, win win win, grin grin grin.

Utter, steaming, wretched, vile gash.

Only the team you support with every sinew in your prolapsed arms can get away with being functional. We can forgive England this crime as the pulse will quicken when one deflects off the mainframe with seconds remaining. But not Germany. Not unless you live in Rostock or Seer Green & Jordans.

Argentina play dream football, carving teams open like a cocunut and spooning out the delicate flakes inside. Ultimately, it should come down to style and attitude and that is why it is heartbreaking that Sergio Torres' mob are now suffering 16 years of hurt. Put it this way, would you rather watch a highlights package of Maradona's career or Miroslav "Yawn" Klose?

It would be great for England to exact revenge on Germany, not just for reoccupying the Ruhr industrial land but also for stopping Argentina entertaining me for another week. Hun-be-fucking-lievable.

World Cup Day Nineteen

The Karma World Cup continued tonight when black hitman Thierry Henry took his perfect revenge on cantankerous racist Luis Aragones, by making out that Carles (not Carlos as ITV call him for some reason) Puyol had fired an angled one into his studied face.

From the resulting free-kick, France scored the decisive goal in the game and clawed their way into the quarter-finals.

But this World Cup karma is like an endless Albanian blood feud and soon enough Henry will have to reap the consequences of his action. Whether this involves going missing from a big game as usual will soon become evident against Brazil on Saturday.

Spain can once again bleat about their great team and its early exit but as England have the chance of showing in the coming days, the group games ultimately mean absolutely nothing, like a first date when you do a reconstruction job on your personality and make out that your homicidal tendencies are nothing but fiery Mediterranean passion.

World Cup Day Eighteen

Those people criticising the Switzerland v Ukraine slugging match on Monday evening should bare in mind that if their roast dinners were made up entirely of crackling and sauce then they would have scurvy by the end of the month.

No World Cup can be made up entirely of rocket fuel, sometimes a little lighter fluid can do just as good a job.

This need to slate any game that doesn't have a "big team" in it and to sneer at Ukraine for having funny hair should be made to watch endless videos of adidas/nike superstars doing tricks on a dustbin lid while a photogenic hurricane rages above them and wide-eyed children stare on from crumbling desert shacks.

That ain't football baby, that's rope tricks for idiots.

COME ON UKRAINE

World Cup Day Seventeen

You cannot have it both ways.

It's eight yellows and four reds

or

16 yellow cards.

Anyone who says that the Cheating Dutch versus Sneaky Portuguese game had 16 yellows and four reds is making a mistake so fundamental that they should paint brie in their eyes and get a hungry rat to gnaw them out.

Great game though, always good to see the Anne Frank betrayers get some punishment in Germany.

World Cup Day Sixteen

The knockout games are soaked in glamour and the greedy possibility of extra-time, but I feel a great sadness at the passing of the group games.

They were regular as clockwork and once they are over the tournament dies a slow death, with fallers each day, like a global Grand National, until two heavyweights slug it out in the final, while most are already concerned with other matters.

So as you tucked into Germany piling into Sweden like a banshee, and Argentina and Mexico giving it Latin style, I hope there was a tear shed for Angola, Poland, Iran and America, just a few of the squads already reduced to just wispy memories and over-exposed photographs on the FIFA website.

They gave us joy for two weeks.

World Cup Day Fifteen

Though the record books will show that France are in the second round, morally they are not. Beating Togo is no achievement as the Spanish will ably demonstrate on Thursday.

This French team is a monstrous collection of buckled egos and in my eyes they have already left the tournament.

I would suggest that this invalidates all bets made on "Les Bleus".

World Cup Day Fourteen

It is always delicious to see trend-following idiots get a battering through cognitive justice and tonight was a great example of that.

Two facts were established before the conclusion of Group F:

1) Ronaldo is fat, slow and has no talent left. He should be cut open like a chump chop and left to dry in the rain.

2) Graham Poll is an excellent official. He is far better than the mad and corrupt foreign referees who cannot be relied on to control a game. He has a great chance of refereeing the final if England aren't in it.

Oh dear, the above appears to be slightly out of date now.

1) Class is permanent and a 25% fit Ronaldo is still better than a 100% fit Pauleta, or Jared Borgetti or whoever. Drawing level with Gerd Muller is a fine achievement and a crowning glory for the best striker of the last 20 years. In his peak he was unplayable, and now he will live on in history forever.

2) Poll is a clown and it was beautiful to watch him implode in front of a global audience. Three bookings for one player, random decisions, handballs missed, blowing for full-time as a "goal" was scored. This man should not be allowed to referee Holmer Green Pirates v Brill Hill, let alone a game in the FIFAworldcup.

As myths shatter, only those who knew the truth all along avoid getting shards in their feet.

World Cup Day Thirteen

It was instructive to view the reaction of the Angola players when they conceded a late equalising goal against Iran on Wednesday afternoon. The rage that burst from nine of the players towards the two culpable for the error was startling, until you know that they had all been promised houses if they won a match at the World Cup Finals.

The contrast with the bloated wealth of the England squad was sobering.

Even the mighty Italians are staying at a hotel that you or I could afford if we fancied some butterfly catching and wood-based molestation in the German forests. England, in contrast, are in a hotel so expensive that the water is made of three parts hydrogen to one part oxygen.

Sven-Goran Eriksson instructed the hotel to paint the rooms a special colour before his squad got there, in some vain hope that it would help the side. I have yet to see much evidence of it working. In addition, the 23 millionaires were all given a 10k budget at various shops to buy video games, pop-up books and compilation albums.

Was it all really so necessary?

Good luck to Angola in the future, with a decent striker they could have made the knockout stages, a bit like England really.

World Cup Day Twelve

They all come crawling back in the end. Who? The people who have spent hours and weeks jeering Owen Hargreaves because they never see him on their Sky TeeVee are now congratulating him on a job well done.

This is to be expected. Science has proven that most football fans are vermin.

What is worse are the slimy media pundits who were just as critical of Hargreaves and are now claiming credit for his return to the starting XI. Most of these idiots have never even been to Munchen, let alone played for Bayern for five seasons.

England games are like heroin. They draw you in for one last shot and you wake up sweating and caked in vomit. We'll all be back on Sunday, though. Be sure of that.

World Cup Day Eleven

Much has been made of the usual in-fighting amongst players from the various regions of Spain and how their simmering rage normally scuppers the side's chances of landing a global pot.

"This time is different," scream semi-informed hacks on newspapers across the continent, and they may be right. But the truth is I am jealous of the hatred between Spanish regions and yearn for the same problems to cause cracks in the England squad.

How can the Mancunians abide the Scousers, how can Rio (south London) bear to be in the same team as Joe Cole (north London) or the Essex crew that insist on shooting nightclub bouncers in hedge-bound Range Rovers?

The collectiveness of the England squad shames our nation which has been subjugated with a thousand years of national unity. It is time to tear up the rule book, install border guards at every county line and refuse to share the same water as men from the town down the road.

Then England could beat Tunisia 3-1 and everyone would be happy. It will never happen, though, as our postal system is too entrenched for change. Sad times.

World Cup Day Ten

The arrogance of the French reached new heights today as they decided that the numerical system that has been used throughout Europe for the last few thousand years did not apply to them any longer.

One goal up is never enough, not in this game, yet the shamed veteran masters team sat on their single goal lead like a bent hen hatching a fucked egg.

Luckily for the International Justice Police, South Korea surged back to win hearts and minds with a goal from Ji-Sung Park. His face may have aged 23 years since the last World Cup but his legs still work. The sight of Fabian Barthez flapping is one that brings great joy to the planet and one which we will see for the final time against Togo later in the week.

Tune in for the French collapse. It's going to be a fruity Bastille.

World Cup Day Nine

Police Report. Munich 12:09, June 17

Herr Chump was arrested just after MIDDAY when it was observed that he had CLIMBED into a car heading for the World Cup Arena, wearing a t-shirt celebrating the Munich Beer Hall Putsch.

When questioned about the incident, Herr Chump accused the arresting officers of working for the WEIMAR State and that if they expected him to collect his wages in a WHEELBARROW then they had another thing coming. He was clearly AGITATED and had flecks of foam on his mouth and upper lip.

Ultimately he wriggled free on a technicality but not before predicting that ITALY would struggle against THE U S A and that Ghana are a coming force, just like the organisers of the Putsch, the one that was on his t-shirt, which is now in our cellar/MUSEUM and is available for viewing for just €15.

We agreed with him that Group D was pointless.

World Cup Day Eight

Argentina, stroking it around, pure and simple, cut open the Serbs like a can of processed peas. Everyone going meta-feral, give them the crown now, they are the greatest, always have been deep down.

That is the thought process of some and who knows, they may yet be proven right. But I don't think so. The Serbs had bottled this game long before kick-off and they stood off as the Dirty Argies™ tore their junta apart like rotting flesh.

A better team would have clattered into some of the men in blue. The best looking girl at school is always ropey when she's 21 and Argentina will fade before July 9, you can be sure of that.

World Cup Day Seven

The whining that burst from many sections of the national press as England racked up their eighth consecutive win was hard to swallow. Two goals against Trinidad was not good enough according to the egghead pundits, the same people who slated England for putting six past an "embarrasing Jamaica" a week earlier.

The only person who should have been criticised in the England set-up was little Welshman Michael Owen, who continues to masquerade as a footballer. His pace has gone, his invention was never there and he looks as barren as an OAP's womb.

Thank St George for Crouchaldinho and the return of Wayne Rooney. These two men are the ones who could fire the nation into the latter stages of the tournament. Owen can return home and watch videos of France 98 and reflect on his shocking decline since those days. His control of the national press is masterful, of course, and it is worth remembering the number of boffin know-nothings who pronounced him a "guaranteed 20 goals a season man" when he returned from Real Madrid.

The truth is Owen has never managed 20 league goals in a single season.

Charlatan.

World Cup Day Six

The lack of meat processing facilities in the former East Germany has been a sad sight for me as I've travelled the region in the past few weeks. I have seen salami being chopped up with the dirty handles of scissors and veal being transported in vans no more powerful than a renovated Moto Guzzi.

Make no mistake, Germany loves its meat and it has been a joy to tuck into a world famous "Six Minuten Steak Sliver Das Boot" in my various jaunts around the Fatherland.

And with the Happy Hun slaughtering Poland on Wednesday night to all but book a place in the second round, there will be many celebratory ducks and sausages being eaten for breakfast tomorrow. I once heard that funerals in Germany take eight minutes longer than the rest of Europe because the meat diet made the corpse heavier, but I have yet to see any proof.

I'd like to find out of my own accord but I find it reprehensible to break into graveyards, at least when the weather is hot and there is a World Cup on.

Tomorrow England play Trinidad. It will be lamb chops and mutton pie against jerk chicken and beef patties. Who will have gravy running down their chin and who will be piping savoury jelly into their own arteries? The suspense is almost tangerine.

World Cup Day Five

I noted with interest on Chairboys On The Net's profit-making messageboard The Gasroom last week that fabled SMBU Founders Trust leader oily sailor wagered that France would not escape from their group at this World Cup.

He is wrong about most things but I suspect that he is right this once. Even a bent clock rings a cuckoo twice a month.

France look like an Adidas advert gone wrong. A shuffling bunch of once-stars, egos trailing behind them like strings of lumpy semen and weighed down by the EPO-fuelled memories of 1998. Most teams who win the World Cup have more than a helping hand (Russian linesmen, Juntas, Hand of God) but France were the first to have use of increased haematocrit, the spine of their team in that year coming straight out of the disgraced Juventus medical centre.

Now the blood is tired and so are the minds. Zidane's bald head is like a beacon of decline and Switzerland should have won the game. Korea will surely prove too quick and sharp for the French in the next game and despite oily sailor edging closer to a £10 chump chop, I will cheer this development.

Oh, and Brazil didn't look much better either. Perhaps Nike are picking the team again.

World Cup Day Four

There was colonic irrigation and colonial irritation on day four of the World Cup, with America and Australia, two nations who should by rights be banned from playing in the tournament, both in action.

America should be banned because they have no understanding of the spirit of sport, the battle between far flung nations and the concept of having away kits that aren't white. Their hideous FIFA ranking of five was made into crumbs by the Czech Republic as the former communists swarmed over Uncle Sam like napalm running into a child's eyeball.

3-0 and the Arena Men are facing an early rendition flight back over the Atlantic. Let's hope they aren't shot down by any rogue F-16s.

Australia are slightly different, in that they will gladly compete with even a paper blowing in the wind if that's all there is but they do so with a wretched bouncy sneer that can drive even a shy bald buddhist to commit mass murder. Cheering on Japan, home of electronics and Shinto, against the Socceroos, home of Heartbreak High and nuclear radiation was sweet until their vile yellow shirts poured forward and claimed three goals in eight minutes.

Cue conga dances from every Walkabout in London and an end to the pretence that these people truly believe rugby and cricket to be superior "sports". They are gagging for more WC action and the human race can only pray that Croatia and Brazil end Australia's chances of progression as soon as possible.

World Cup Day Three

It's tough to love the Dutch. The idiots see a peacenik hippy total football crew but the reality is that they all have severe short back and sides with the top gelled and a sneer and an attitude and a manner that makes you want to flail with your southpaw. But you don't. Not yet.

The Serbs on the other hand smell of DEATH SQUAD and CLEANSING and you worry about what sort of village life you can really expect when there's an unexploded mine under the marquee.

But the only result to hope for in Leipzig was a win for the Balkan beauties, but it was one that never came as their experience of hand-to-hand combat meant nothing against the country who proportionally gave up more Jews to the Nazis than any other European nation.

These things never forget themselves.

Later I was wandering in a leafy suburb with some Iranian fans, chatting about the need for nuclear energy. "Why do you need all our oil when it is so hot in northern Europe?" one sweaty supporter asked me. I pointed him to a picture of Ivor Beeks' enormous converted Lexus and his cheeky grin turned to horror. "Can one man drive such a vehicle?" he pondered.

No, but he has a robot arm and petrol instead of semen.

World Cup Day Two

Plastic is an evil substance. I loathe the plastic sausages that some low-rent butchers place in their windows, their waxy nothingness luring nothing but flies.

There are too many plastic fans in Germany, most of them supporting England, hating Hargreaves, promoting St George, sweating like mules. The England game was like watching ants running round a frying pan, dodging the sunflower oil.

Threeeeeeeee points is a haul, though. Ein, Zwei, Drei. Fear and Loathing.

Trinidad saved the day, proving that a team made up of lower league icons can hold its own at the biggest tournament of them all. Extrapolating in a Cologne bar with a 10-year venison contract tucked in my shirt, I realised that the 2005-06 autumn Wycombe side, deep in The Project, could have probably got out of one of the groups in the 2006 World Cup. F, H or M at least.

I saw nothing in the Argentina game to please me. Even Maradona's health is a depressing confirmation of the need to be sensible. This heat is making me sweat bullets.

World Cup Day One

Emerging from the bratwurst fair with a proud string of peppered units tied round my neck, I plunged through the generic forest to see the start of the opening game.

Costa Rica played open, the German defence was weaker than a NASA cardboard re-entry capsule but the foul Huns still scored four, thanks mainly to the ball, purchased by the ref from out of a string bag at a Texaco garage near Ipswich the day before the competition began. He had been given permission from FIFA do so but only when he had recharged his phonecard.

That ball bent and swerved like a Tony Leese three-course special and while it may look good on television, let me tell you, here in Germany there was anguish. They like their balls hard, strong and pure in the Fatherland and these ones look wafty.

The second game was end to end and the Poles took one on the chin from the Quito Angels. My cellphone trilled and the sight of a message from Jixz656 was enough to keep me entertained through the night

"Hey you! Crazy agme we lost to Ecudoors, Krakow on fire I punched a man and he was a police and now my FIFAworldcup is looking from inside prison!!!!!!!"

Three games tomorrow, I'll be at none of them, I have to open a carvery in Cologne. Easy meat.