World Cup 2006: a wet November evening
Another hot day. On Saturdays, I leave home at 1.10pm, a Vitamin D-enriching walk to the station (glorious today under the lunchtime sun with my arms out, basted in Green People sun cream, and my new iPod playlist in my head), catch the 1.48 train to London and get into Victoria at 2.20, leaving me enough time to detour via Planet Organic off the Tottenham Court Road to buy organic food to put in the 6 Music fridge for tomorrow's lunch: salad, wheat-free pie, apple and pomegranate juice, bananas. Then it's an hour of prep for the chart, two hours of radio, train back to Redhill at 6.32 and arrive back home, via a taxi from the station, just after 7pm. All very routine, but it means I missed the first and second games. It's not so bad on a Sunday, as I get home at 6pm, which means half a match left. Ate gorgeous dinner on the patio, lamb and roasted vegetables (artichoke, aubergine, red onions, red pepper and mushrooms), in time to catch the start of the third match, Italy versus USA.

Portugal 2 Iran 0
Ronaldo scored from a penalty in the 80th minute. I know this because I read about it on the BBC website. I liked Portugal against Angola last Sunday and wanted them to win. Missing this one means I have yet to see Iran, which seems careless.
Czech Republic 0 Ghana 2
What an upset! We put this one on in the studio at 5pm, with the sound down, and I saw the first Ghanaian goal, which went in within a minute and a half (a record for this World Cup). I wish I'd been able to see the rest but, with the best will in the world, there's no point in watching it with the sound down, when you're doing a chart rundown, so we switched it over. I'm chuffed for the African team. I'd love one of them to go through.
Italy 1 USA 1
Unbelieable. What a game. I'm so glad I saw this one in full, even though, as ITV1 commentators Peter Drury and David Pleat agreed, some of the incident that made it so enthralling and mental brought shame upon the game. All seemed well for the first 26 minutes: USA looked strong and confident after their Czech defeat, Italy seemed determined and up for it, and their first goal, a fine header from Gilardino, filled any kneejerk anti-Americans among us with hope. Then, it was as if a can of something toxic was opened. Zaccardo mis-kicked spectacularly and equalised with an own-goal, the first of the tournament unless you count the debatable intervention of Beckham's against Paraguay. Then all hell broke loose. Italy's De Rossi elbowed star American striker Brian McBride in the face, drawing blood, and was sent off forthwith. (Luckily, McBride is Dr Sean McNamara from Nip/Tuck and did some emergency cosmetic surgery on himself.) With Italy suddenly down to ten men, who was going to score all the rest of the goals? America answered this "big ask" when their own Mastroeni (an Italian, no less) kindly left the field, after sliding into Pirlo and getting his red card. Blimey, I said, at this rate, they'll be playing mixed doubles before the final whistle! And guess what, America's Pope (as opposed to Italy's Pope - ha ha) earned his second yellow card and - Fifa rules is Fifa rules - was sent to the naughty step too. US coach Brian Arena looked one step closer to his coronary. DaMarcus Beasley came on for the States, scored, and was adJudged offside. (I'm surprised the Uraguayan ref saw it, he was so busy shuffling his cards.) The two teams fought to the death, but Italy couldn't get one in, and it ended, finally, exhaustingly, operatically, as a point apiece, which I daresay America will be grateful for in the circumstances. As Drury commented midway through the second half, "There's so much space on the field!" He then compared the last act to a "socks round the ankles" game of English club football on that "wet November night" with its "blood and guts". This was a better comparison than the one he made at the final whistle about a Saturday night film with a lot of "subplots" or something. Everyone hung their heads in shame. I have no opinion on the disallowed Beasley goal, as Julie and I were distracted by a deer in the garden and we were standing at the patio doors at the time. She's got two new fawns, but I didn't see them.

Well, a game that was not without incident. Aren't the BBC showing any more matches or something?

Do other stadiums announce over the PA that they've sold all the tickets? Or is this just a German thing? Oh, and that Go West tune - it sounds like an operatic version they're playing at the end of matches. Any ideas?

A literary connection



Why was Jonathan Ross so much more bearable last night? Simple. Because none of the guests were women. Vic Reeves, John Malkovich and Peter Kay: all men. Thus, no opportunity for Ross to embarrass himself, and us, with that middle-aged lechery he had made his stock-in-trade. Anyway, both Reeves and Kay were on to talk about their autobiographies. Vic's is out, it has a stupendous title (Me: Moir) and it covers the first 20 years of his life, just like Where Did It All Go Right?, which ended when I left home, aged 19. I'd like to read it. Meanwhile, Kay's, which he's almost finished writing, seems to have been written as a direct spoiler to an unauthorised book by "some journalist".

I know that journalist. He asked me for some comments on Peter for the book, even though I have never met the man. Our tenuous link is that we were both on I Love The 80s. It seems that this journalist, a nice chap, just doing a job of work, was having trouble getting people to speak to him. No surprise, since we now know that Kay has been writing his own book, and presumably pulled up the drawbridge on friends and family. As for other comedians . . . the truth of the matter is, other comedians don't like Peter Kay. Clearly, with his huge success, much of this can be attributed to pathological comedy bitterness (they will be feeling the same way about Russell Brand at the moment, especially if - snort! - they've done more pub gigs than him), but I do get the feeling that Kay isn't quite the cheeky chappie behind the scenes and has been somewhat ruthless on his way to the top. (Hang him as a war criminal!) You'll never read this though, as it would come across like sour grapes if anyone said it on record. Anyway, that's not why I'm writing this entry. (Kay, incidentally, was a slippery interviewee, revealing little and distracted by the audience, but as entertaining and warm as ever. I, having never met him, think he's hugely and naturally talented, someone to be cherished. Most of the paying public will never meet or work with him, and they love him. I should also point out that the journalist's book, though unauthorised, is not as far as I know a stitch-up, just a sales-motivated story of his life. I thought Kay came across as very naive when he said to Jonathan, "You can't stop them! There's nothing you can do about it!" as if he didn't know that hundreds of unauthorised showbiz biographies have been written. Also, it was uneccesary, with all that love in the room, to describe his own book as "the funniest thing I've done".)

Memoirs are in the foreground because I had a tip-off from Rob Newman yesterday by email that I am mentioned in the back of Black Swan Green, the new novel by much-admired, Granta- and Richard & Judy-approved, Booker-shortlisted David Mitchell. I doubted this, as I have never crossed paths with the man. (Hey, maybe I can contribute to an unauthorised book about him one day!) Also, there is anther authorly Andrew Collins, who writes books about mummies, King Arthur and crop circles. It could be him, I thought. So I went into a bookshop, found Mitchell's book, had a look, and lo and behold, this is what it says at the end of his acknowledgments, just after crediting Le Grand Meaulnes by Alain-Fournier (Librairie Fayard, 1971) and Lord Of The Flies by William Golding (Faber & Faber, 1954):

"The novel owes debts of detail to Andrew Collins's memoir Where Did It All Go Right? (Ebury Press, 2003)"

I took it to the till forthwith, in hardback too (five pounds off in Borders). It turns out it's written from the point of view of a 13-year-old boy in 1982 (Mitchell was born in 1969, and was, hey, 13 in 1982, four years younger than me). I've only flicked through it and properly read a few pages so far, but it's done in the vernacular of a young teenager and is full of references to butterscotch Angel Delight and what's on the telly, and I can only assume he used my own memories to in some peripheral way enhance the detail of his own. How flattering is that? I finally have a connection with literary merit! What a nice chap to credit me. He would certainly have got away with not doing so. This cheers me up greatly after yet another lukewarm two-star customer review for my own book on Amazon, bringing the average rating down to three and a half, something I am learning to deal with. Mitchell gets four or five stars all the way.

The Rob Newman wasn't a name-drop. I have known him since before he was famous. Indeed, I made him famous. We didn't see or hear from each other for years, but we have recently reconnected.

World Cup 2006:
Another hard day at the office, working hotly to finish writing Not Going Out before the lease runs out on the office itself and rehearsals begin in earnest (which happen on Tuesday and Wednesday, respectively). Today, we had interruptions by the costume department (we're well into pre-production now) and we had to finish early as Lee was involved in some casting at 3.30 (Lee is executive producer as well as star and co-writer, hence his higher-than-normal stress levels). I've just realised, that doesn't sound like a hard day at the office. Trust me. I was delighted to be out of there at 3.30. One and a third matches seen, as a result. Result! Results:

Argentina 6 Serbia Montenegro 0
Typical to have missed the six-goal annihilation. Argentina are clearly in it to win it. I shall look forward to seeing them play Holland. Or is it the Netherlands?
Holland 2 Cote D'Ivoire 1
Or indeed the Nederlands? It said NED at the top of the screen. As I say, missed the first half and some of the second, so the final score didn't change, but it was stirring to see the Coast do so well, and with such determination against the boys in orange.
Mexico 0 Angola 0
Bad start. NTL box went off. This has happened before, so we tried not to panic, and did all the things you usually do (the NTL helpline, ironically named, shuts down at 8pm) - turn it off at the socket, turn it back on after 30 seconds etc. Good job it wasn't an England match. We gave up and unplugged the cable box at 8.20 and watched the game the old-fashioned way, through the aeriel. Well, after seeing off Iran in some style, Mexico couldn't get a grip on Angola, who held them to 0-0 until half time. It was on ITV1, but no Tyldesley and Southgate. It was a man called Jon Champion's job to continually advertise future matches on ITV1 and point us in the direction of the competition for phoneline revenue, while Southgate's chipping in was done in the much more condusive South-Dublin tones of a man called Jim Beglin, of whom I know nothing. But I liked his casual, sing-song style. (He might not be from South Dublin, but Julie is very good at pinpointing Irish accents.) Did you know, because I didn't, that Angola are semi-professional? Some of them have other jobs, or are unemployed. This makes their performance against Fifa's fourth-ranking side all the more impressive. Here's another fact: the Angolan goalie, Joao Ricardo - by a mile the man of the match, executing a "Pat Jennings" one-handed save at one point, and "unattached" to any club - is 36 years old; the average life expectancy of a man in his country is 38. Gulp. So let us join the pocket of home fans in their red, black and yellow, outnumbered about nine to one at Hanover's Neidersachsenstadion, and cheer Angola back to the dressing rooms. For they held that 0-0 scoreline right to the end. The Mexican coach, Ricardo La Volpe, whom Jon Champion likened to Captain Pugwash with his little goatee, is apparently not well liked at home. He's argumentative, combative and thinks he's always right. Oh, for such an interesting coach here! Anyway, he barely speaks to Fonseca, whom he put on in the 73rd, to much Mexican cheering. Not that it could break the Angolans, who were down to ten men, after a Macanga red card, for the last ten minutes. So, another goalless draw, but what a thrilling match. Just goes to show. (By the way, Beglin, who continued to charm, used the phrase, "It's a big ask." This is a crime against English, but I'll let it go.) My brother and his family used to live in Hanover. I went to visit them once, but, apart from a trip to Belsen, we stayed on the army camp where he was stationed.

Incidentally, doesn't the law of averages state that one or two of the Angolan fans must have died during this match?

I've realised, of course, that if England win Group B, whomsoever they play, they'll play on a Sunday afternoon, when I'm on air. I can't get out of the Sunday show, so my only option is to video the match and watch it the minute I get home at 6pm. This is a radical response to an insoluble problem. After that, should they win, their quarter final falls more accommodatingly into my work schedule, and all the big matches from thereon, including the final, are on in the evenings.

I have recorded the first part of China on BBC2, by the way, but I suspect we won't be watching it for a couple of weeks. Normal service will then be resumed, as I have no interest in tennis.

The honeymoon is over
This must be a common tale. When I started my MySpace page up, all of three weeks ago, I was thrilled every time I received a New Friend Request! flashing in my inbox. I accepted everybody, keen to build up my friend portfolio and genuinely flattered that anybody had bothered to request my friendship. After two weeks, when it emerged that Richard Herring had doubled my friend total in the same time, I began to realise that accumulating random friends is without in-built merit. Without making a decision to do so, I started to consider new requests with more rigour. If the "friend" was a struggling indie band I had never heard of, and who appeared to have no other friends in common with me, I put them into a holding pattern. Equally, I started to do rudimentary credit checks; if I didn't like the look of the person's MySpace page, I put them into the holding pattern too. One girl, for instance, seemingly harmless, had used the c-word a lot, which put me off. I sometimes use the c-word in speech, but not in mixed company, and I didn't think it was big or clever to actually put it in your MySpace description, however light-hearted - hey, you've got to have a system. Another boy had a picture of someone, not himself as it turned out, dressed as Hitler. I found this in questionable taste and put him in the holding pattern too. I did not have the guts to actually press "deny". (What happens when you do? Does a big denied! flash in their inbox, Wayne's World style?) Anyway, over the past week I have collected almost 40 would-be friends whose requests I have not approved. And today, I denied somebody. She seemed odd, so I looked her up and all her Top 8 friends were current Big Brother contestants. I don't want to get involved, even on a superficial and virtual level, with somebody like that. Let us not completely devalue the word "friend". I stupidly accepted "Noel Edmonds" during that first flush of enthusiasm, not really thinking it was him, and then I checked his page and it strikes me as so dim to start an account just to pretend to be a celebrity, no matter how humorously, and so I deleted him from my friends. Now does he get notification if that happens? Anybody know? Perhaps I can do a deal - if someone here who's also a friend on MySpace could volunteer, I'll delete you and see if you get notified. Just as an experiment. Then you can reapply and I'll reaccept. Hands up.

Nothing more to report really, other than I expect everybody goes through this. It makes accepting a new friend more meaningful.

The New New Statesman
Just to say, the relaunched, "taller and wider" New Statesman, a magazine I have subscribed to for the last nine years, has survived what for a 25,000-circulation concern is a fairly high-profile facelift. (Media Guardian rather desperately tried to sell the story as lefty-rag-goes-all-comedy because they've taken on Julian Clary as a regular columnist, even though regular readers will know that Clary has been writing for them for quite a while, filling in as theatre critic and for Rory Bremner, whose rather forced column has been a fixture for ages. Still, at least they wrote about it.) I don't need this all-headline cover design style. I preferred the single image for impact. The new style suggests desperation. It says, "Look, we've got all this stuff inside, please buy it!" That said, there appears to have been no cut in word-length, the usual casualty in market-led redesigns (one of the reasons I stopped buying Q), and nor does the design involve too many "box outs" and gimmicks. It's mainly still intelligent pieces written from the left, with photos next to them, and with some pages on a blue tint. Surprised to see a couple of unfanfared sackings in the arts section though: Portillo dropped as theatre critic, Victoria Segal as film critic . . . mercifully, they have retained Rachel Cooke on radio and Andrew Billen on TV. My subscription remains safe.

World Cup 2006: our gangly fool
Shouldn't you be at work? Industry ground to a halt this afternoon as England played their second Group B match and the media went into Rooney meltdown. Having risen with the birds at 5.30 so that I could catch the 7.18 train into London, I was in Regents Park recording the final part of The Day The Music Died jigsaw at about 12.30 (it'll all become clear when you listen to the show on Saturday), then back in the sitcom office by 1.00 for an intensive two hours, before we adjourned for football-related self-flaggellation in hilarious plastic German helmets.

THURSDAY
Equador 3 Costa Rica 0
This put the tin hat on it for Costa Rica, if you'll pardon the off-colour war allusion in the presence of our sensitive hosts. If Equador draw against Germany they will win the group, which would be an upset. It would also mean that if we win ours, we'll play Germany, but that's all pointless speculation as yet.
England 2 Trinidad & Tobago 0
What agony they put us through. For the best part of 80 minutes this was a hard slog, a trial at Nuremberg, watching Lampard miss chance after chance, while Owen remained invisible and Crouch looked for all the world like a waste of space (and he takes up a lot of space). Only John Terry, who kept a header from Trinidad's brilliantly-named Stern John out, and David Beckham, setting them up, were anything like heroic. Elsewhere it was a familiar story: poor passing, muffed shots from good crosses, general lack of cohesion and not enough energy. One apparent "shot" at goal by Peter Crouch looked more like the ball had simply hit him on the top of his head. If this medical giant can't win in the air, what is the point of him?, you might have asked. We did. Clive Tyldesley, in the ITV commentary box, would not shut up about Wayne Rooney ("the missing piece of the jigsaw"; "Our Freddie Flintoff . . . etc." - hopefully not as pissed though). Gareth Southgate, who sounds like a man who wouldn't pronounce his "t"s but does, would not stop apologising for England. This was not commentary as I understand it. The first half was a write-off. What did Sven say to them at half-time? Probably, "Don't worry, I'll put Wayne Rooney on, 13 minutes in." What a talisman the chunky little fellow is. And to be fair, the moment he replaced Owen (at which we were screaming, "Take off Crouch!"), along with the fleet-of-foot Aaron Lennon for Carragher, events picked up. Rhythm entered the side, previously dancing like a dad at a wedding. Energy fizzed. But no goals were forthcoming. By the 83rd minute, we were starting to calculate what a draw would do for us, and then, Crouch scored one off his head, thanks to the latest Beckham cross off the conveyor belt. He didn't even get chance to do his Shalamar dance, he was instead covered in relieved teammates. (Nice moment caught on camera: the hug between Becks and Rooney.) Next, out of nowhere, this bloke called Gerrard (where had he been?) powered one off his left foot and sealed our immediate fate. ("I caught it nice," he said, humbly, after the match.) But Trinidad were valiant and strong once again, having already supplied us with one of the best games so far against Sweden. If they do go out, I hope Dwight Yorke smiles all the way back to Sydney.
Sweden 1 Paraguay 0
Olof Mellberg's men had just as much trouble in the first half as they had against Trinidad & Tobago. The Paraguayans essayed some nasty tackling from the off, but still kept the blondes out of their goal. It was another lastminute.com clincher, this time from the hairless head of Freddie Ljundberg in the 88th, by which time mental permutations about who would go through with how many points and who would play whom in the next round had to be rapidly recalculated. It's a mindfuck. England are currently winning the group and definitely go through, but whether we play Germany, or Equador is still up for grabs. Equally, who goes with us. I've remembered why I love these competitions so much. It's the intricate web of possible outcomes, and the knock-on effect of each game played.

Here's today's talking point: who do you think is the most attractive England player? I'm plumping for Frank Lampard - good bone structure, very well proportioned face, nice eyes, slightly curly mouth. Beckham's not in the running - he's all squinty and oblong - and Owen, although not bad looking now that he's grown up, is a little dull on the eye. Not much going on. Crouch, Rooney, Cole, gawky Neville, nothingy Carragher, forgettable Downing, even the charismatic Ferdinand, all on the subs' bench. John Terry has a reliable, trustworthy face, but he's also a bit hard, with a hint of ruthless. And Ashley Cole is handsome enough and kind-looking, but a little shifty. Both Lennon and Walcott are pretty, but not fully formed yet. Your thoughts? (I sort of can't believe I've written this down, but it keeps me amused.)

The Franken-Stadium at Nuremberg recycles all its rainwater.

Beyond Belief: The Moors Murderers by Emlyn Williams
And in break from the football . . . As I've stated before, I have a particular fascination with serial killers and those who methodically kill. I have read so many books on the subject, it proves I am not one, as only in Hollywood films and episodes of Messiah do serial killers show a morbid fascination for the work of other serial killers. Phew, that's my alibi then. Seriously, I find the extremes that men (and women) will go to, for whatever warped reason, compelling. You can't call it evil - that's too Old Testament for me, and it doesn't help. Even though they often exist on the outskirts of mental stability, repeat killers do so with the same will and thought processes that you or I might apply to picking up a date or putting out the washing. In many cases, the desire to kill is an extreme reaction to a broken childhood, a quest for power denied the killer by circumstance. Sex is more often than not an engine. It's silly to generalise, but we are so often looking at men of a certain age, loners, repressed homosexuals, or just highly sexed. They are usually intelligent, too, and though cruelty to animals can occur in childhood, it's not unusual for a serial killer to have a dog that they love. Dennis Nielsen loved his dog and when he was caught, his one concern was what would happen to his dog. (Then again, Hitler also loved his dog, one he rescued in the trenches of the First World War.)

After watching ITV's See No Evil, I realised I had never read a book about Ian Brady and Myra Hindley (remiss of me, really), so I made up for lost time and ordered two online. The first, a lovely ex-library copy which came from a second hand bookshop, Brady And Hindley: Genesis Of The Moors Murders by Fred Harrison, is the perfunctory telling of the tale, published in 1986 after the author had gained rare access to Brady. This was the book's main selling point, and as an account, solid and factual, it provides useful groundwork, albeit badly punctuated. I'm glad I read it first, as Beyond Belief by Emlyn Williams is the masterwork.

If you read the customer reviews on Amazon, you'll see how it divides readers. As non-fiction crime literature I believe it is in the same league as In Cold Blood, which was only published a year before it. Whether Williams, a playwright, read Capote's classic, either in serialised form in 1965, or in book form in 1966, is unclear. He will have been researching his book at the time - the Brady and Hindley trial at Chester Assizes took place in '66 - so it's possible Capote's novelistic style fed into his own. This, at any rate, is what makes Beyond Belief so special, and what must still infuriate "proper" writers about criminology.

It's written in an impressionistic style, full of phonetic reported (and imagined) speech, and run together like conversation, bitty and without formal punctuation. You'd think this would annoy me (I still hate it when journalists patronisingly use phonetics when quoting people with an accent - see: most Arctic Monkeys articles), but it doesn't. Williams has spoken to many witnesses and is almost fanatical in his research. One of his cleverest coups is to constantly refer to what's showing at the local cinema as he tells the story ("Queens Feb 20 VIOLENT MOMENT, Kings Apr 10 GUNMAN'S WALK. Then the red-letter week of May the 15th: Kings, Return of THE THIRD MAN!!! Dum da de de DUM da DUM . . . ") - this adds spice to the story, and important cultural context, the kind missing in many more sober crime books. Gordon Burn used this approach, albeit less playfully, in Happy Like Murderers, another descendant of Capote.

The Moors Murders is a tale that needs telling, how a weak mind (Hindley's) combined with a strong one (Brady's) can make a hideous combination. I suppose you've got to watch a couple whose pet names for each other are "Hessie" (after Rudolph Hess - that's her nickname) and "Neddie" (after the Goons character, someone Brady did a nifty impression of, apparently). Williams even divines black humour from the murder of Edward Evans, the decisive one that finally got the pair caught: "This must be one of the few indoor murders witnessed by two dogs, and surely the only one ever attended by a budgerigar. There is no record of any reaction from this last. An excerpt from Joey's limited vocabulary would have been, in that silence, impressive." On describing the dead body of Evans, he turns to poetry: "A life-loving mouth, more articulate in death than ever in Greater Manchester. And weak as a flower. But he looked inviolable . . . it could have been a torso from the Aegean Sea, perfect except for the nibblings of erosion."

It's not going to be for everyone, this book, but I was captivated. And what about this for a wise and prescient conclusion, written after Brady and Hindley were locked up and a local bring-back-hanging petition was signed by 30,000 people:

Their continued existence is indeed hard to tolerate. Public feeling being what it is - and about these two the public will have a long memory - it is unlikely they will ever be released, and it is natural for taxpayers to be incensed at the though of their being maintained, for life, by the State. But one word in that complaint does not apply. These two are no longer alive.

I don't know that Morrissey read this book when it first came out, but I'd put money on it.

World Cup 2006: it's happening without me!
Ah, the first day back at work since the World Cup started. That is, back at the sitcom-writing office on Oxford Street in London. A late start, but a 5.30 finish, which meant that I missed two out of today's three games. I feel detached, just like, hey, people with jobs feel throughout the tournament. We'll be clocking off early tomorrow to get back for England Trinidad. At least we have a football-loving boss. (And indeed, it was Lee's trip to Germany at the weekend that gave me Friday and Monday at home, so Gawd bless him for his impulsiveness last week, even though we have to deliver the last episode by this coming Monday. Which has just been extended to Wednesday.)

WEDNESDAY
Spain 4 Ukraine 0
Lee actually put Five Live on in a couple of breaks between coming up with sitcom gold in the office, and we actually heard the fourth Spanish goal. How I would have loved to have seen it. And the other ones.
Tunisia 2 Saudi Arabia 2
Are women allowed to attend football matches in Saudi Arabia? I'm instrested to know. Apparently this was a rare non-sell-out match.
Germany 1 Poland 0
The first of the second matches, if you see what I mean. This is where it gets interesting, as the intra-group and inter-group dynamic begins to appear. Germany only had to win this one to win Group A. At half time, it was by no means in the bag, as Poland held them well. It's a grudge match, but wasn't a very thrilling one at first. Supporting the underdogs, Poland, not through any residual ill-will towards Germany, I found the second half gripping, not least because Poland went down to ten men after a Sobolewski send-off, increasing their unterhunt status (that was improvised German, by the way, I didn't look it up), and a yellow card was flashed at German captain Ballock, which is when BBC commentator Steve Wilson observed, "That won't go down well locally." (Mick McCarthy was full of shit, droning on about players being "punished" and "taking the Michael", and calling one of them "brainless" during another interminable pep-talk. If only he was as charming as the poet Ian McMillan and musician John Shuttleworth, whom his voice is a direct cross between.) It looked as if Poland would keep victory out of Germany's reach, not least through sterling work from handsome-but-timewasting keeper Boruc - and a moment when it seemed as if God was a Pole and the Germans hit the crossbar twice in a matter of seconds (step forward Klose and Ballack), before the offside flag ended the scuffle. Then, in the 91st minute, when we thought it was all over, it was, for Poland. Neuville scored beautifully from a forensic Odonkor cross, finally showing the quality their team were capable of. This put Germany through.

Poor old Poles. Such good bone structure as well, despite all the cured meat.

Can anyone tell me why they play Go West at the end of matches? Am I missing something? (Oh, and I had Owen Hargreaves explained to me today. Now I know why people don't like him: he's not very good. And the other stuff. But booing him seems actually brainless. Let's hope they don't if he comes on tomorrow.)

Grass Pts 1-4
So then, an everyday story of tradesfolk that has been going on for some weeks and is now ready to tell. I am wary of telling it, because it involves me revealing that I am the sort of person who hires a gardener (something that would have made me smile before moving out to the sticks three years ago, but everything changes when you move from inside the M25 to outside the M25 - the people, the parking, the customs). This is not about oh-woe-is-me-I've-got-a-big-garden - although the pleasures of the small garden, like the postage stamp we had in Streatham, should never be underestimated - it's yet another insight into the way people who offer a service go about their business. Tradespeople. The sort with a nice box ad in the Yellow Pages that chirpily claims, "No job too small." The unprofessional behaviour of the self-employed riles me precisely because I am self-employed, and I wouldn't have a garden were it not for what I like to think of as a level of professional conduct; the kind that entices those who employ my services to employ them again. I work hand-to-mouth, like any other self-employed tradesman. No airs and graces here - if I were to take on a job, be it presenting a radio programme or writing a review for a magazine, and I behaved like some of the builders, plumbers, electricians and gardeners I have had the misfortune to deal with over the years, I would be out of business. This is the background to the story I am about to tell.

Last summer, I bought a petrol lawnmower, so that I may wrest the responsibility for keeping my lawn down from a gardening firm who had done the job for a reasonable rate the summer before. (Our garden is too big. That may sound ungrateful, and it's great for attracting deer and foxes and growing wild flowers in, but it is actually stupidly big, which is why it's still just a lawn with a couple of little trees in the middle.) Unlandscaped, undesigned, unloved to a degree, we had deliberately let it grow wild last spring, but it had got too wild and I took the plunge at B&Q. The Mountfield mower I bought was very nice, and I enjoyed being pulled around by it. Who needs to pay a gardener to mow the lawn? Not me!

This spring, I got the mower out, and it was not well, probably knackered from all I put it through last year. White smoke was pouring out of it, and then a belt seemed to snap inside. I rang the Mountfield helpline, which, I must point out, is very helpful, and they gave me the name of a registered repair shop where I could get it repaired under my warranty. However, I may have mentioned, I've been working up to seven days a week and haven't had time to take it in yet. We decided to hire a gardening firm to come and cut the lawn before it got wild again, and to do some general maintenance on the hedges with ladders and strimmers that I don't have.

Pt 1
A flyer put through the letterbox by a local, eco-friendly firm caught our eye. A very nice, colourful, professionally printed flyer with logo and talk of carbon-neutrality, they seemd like our kind of gardener. A seemingly nice, young man came round promptly, and we walked round the garden while he made a note of what needed doing, hedge-trim, nettle-clearance, tree-lopping etc. (We intended this to be one-off job, as I was going to get the mower fixed and take the grass upkeep on myself again, but the man wasn't to know that. As far as he was concerned, we were a nice, new client. With a big garden. Bingo, surely?) All seemed well. We agreed the price and he and two co-workers arrived a week later to do the work. They did the work. Now, our initial conversation about the already-long lawn had gone something like this:

"It'll need cutting twice," he informed me. "Once with the tractor (his name for the sit-on mower) and once with the ordinary mower. We'll try to finish it in a day, but we may need to come back to finish it off."
"Fine," I said.

They left at the end of the day, with all the work done to a good standard. The lawn had been cut down with the tractor, with the cuttings left lying on it, as he'd told me they would be. We waited a couple of days, but nobody returned to finish the lawn off. I left the nice man a message, asking when that might be. Nothing. The next day, I left him three messages, one at his office, one on his mobile, and one with a woman who picked up the second time I called his office. I started to feel like a nuisance - not a good feeling. He eventually called back, and told me that they'd finished the job. I begged to differ. He had only done half a job, based on the conversation we'd had. He told me that the price quoted covered the work as it had been done. If I wanted the lawn finishing off I'd have to pay them sixty quid more to come back and do it. I kept calm, but insisted that this was not my understanding of our deal. Here, you'll have spotted, it's my word against his, as I had stupidly failed to record our conversation. I felt I had common sense on my side: why would I want my lawn half-cutting, with all the grass clippings left lying around? We'd even discussed where the grass clippings could be dumped, on the compost heap. I remember this detail distinctly. We reached a stalemate. He felt the job was done, I did not. He said he'd finish it for more money, I wanted it finished for the money we had agreed. (He'd been quick to send an invoice, but fortunately we had been quick to not pay it, waiting for the job to be finished first, so at least we had that card.) We weren't getting anywhere. I was getting hot under the collar, but remained civil - very important if you want to retain the moral advantage. Eventually, he agreed a compromise: to come back and finish it for half the money he would normally charge. In desperation, I agreed. In private, we agreed never to use this firm ever again, but we wanted the lawn finished.

Pt 2
The men returned to finish the lawn. It had rained in the meantime. They got the tractor fired up (a pretty dim thing to do on a wet lawn, I thought, but I'm no expert or I'd be running a gardening business), and it was too wet for it to do the job. So they packed up and said they'd come back when it was less wet. In good faith, we gave them a cheque for the outstanding amount, plus the extra for finishing off, which of course they had yet to do.

A week went by. No rain. The grass, which looked pretty horrible anyway, half-cut and with clippings all over it, was starting to grow again at a rate. I rang the nice man again. He explained that the tractor had broken and had to be mended, so they couldn't come back yet. In fact, he told me that it had broken while trying to cut our lawn in the wet. This had been a week ago. If this had been true, why didn't he put it in to be fixed straight away? If they only have one tractor, surely it's essential to their work? But he said it "had to go in" to be fixed. I doubted this tale, but gave him the benefit of the doubt and asked when he might be back to finish the job for which he had now been paid, as per our agreement. As soon as the tractor was fixed. I called back again a few days later. Still not fixed. When, I asked? Next week, he said. This had become, officially, a farce. My blood was now boiling, so I called him back and said, "Change of plan. How about you don't come back and cut the lawn and you send me back my thirty quid?" He said OK and would put it in the post that night. I felt so much better for having sacked him. I never wanted to hear his smarmy voice again. Half-cut lawn. My mower still in garage.

Pt 3
I picked three new gardening firms from the Yellow Pages. I left messages with all three, explaining that I needed my lawn cutting and could they give me a rough estimate for the job. Firm No. 3 called back first. Nice-sounding gentleman (although this is irrelevent), he offered to come round that very evening to look at the lawn. And he did. In the flesh, he was a nice gentleman, old and weathered, much better than young and keen and full of hot carbon-neutral air. He gave me a price, based on an hourly rate, which struck me as high. However, I needed it doing. He offered to check with a friend to see if he could borrow a piece of equipment that would reduce the time it would take. I appreciated this offer. He left, saying, "I'll give you a call." Guess what happened next? He didn't call. Days went by.

Pt 4
In the meantime, while Firm No. 3 wasn't calling back, Firm No. 1 (another nice-sounding old gentleman) called back, twice. He said he'd send somebody round Saturday morning (that's the Saturday just gone, England Paraguay). Firm No. 3 have disappeared. Anyway, Firm No. 1 did indeed send someone round, called Colin, another weathered, sunbeaten man with experience behind him, who was the most impressive of all the men I had spoken to. First of all, he told me that he did gardens that were much bigger than mine - in other words, it'll be a breeze. Second, he spoke of customer relationships, making sure the customer was happy, that sort of old-fashioned stuff. And he reckoned he could do it this week. Firm No. 1 got the gig. A different man did indeed turn up, yesterday, and do the job. The man in charge actually called me up at the end of the afternoon to check that I was happy with the work. I was very happy with the work. I was ecstatic that a firm who I had called about the work had actually called me back, come to see the work and then returned to do it - a service that is very rare indeed, it seems.

I have refrained from naming any of the firms. even the good one, who, by the way, we will be using again in a few weeks to do a top-up. That is the way to run a business. Next time Word magazine rings me up to ask me to write a piece for them, I might not ring them back. Or if I do, I might take the job on, and not deliver it. Or, I might deliver it, half-written, and then seek to charge them extra money to finish it. Then I might never deliver the final draft. Or just avoid Mark Ellen's calls. Let's see how long Word magazine carry on ringing me up after that. (Actually, that's the wrong example - imagine the New Yorker, for whom I have never worked - a new customer! Bingo! - called me today with an offer of work and I didn't call them back. Imagine that. Then imagine me with no more work.)

I'm afraid my blood is starting to heat up. I hope getting this down will cool me off. It's not here to invite a flood of messages about bad service. My intention is not to denigrate tradespeople, but the poor behaviour of a few bad apples tends to obscure your memories of the good firms. Three cheers then, to the young man who came round to lay our stair carpet a few weeks ago.

Moral: expect nothing from anybody. Now, let's get my mower fixed. The irony is, if I had no work, I'd have more time to do the work that I have to employ others to do, or not do. Firm No. 2, incidentally, never called back after my first message. They deserve work, don't they?

PS: I have yet to receive the refunded cheque for the work the first gardeners didn't do. A week ago he told me he'd put it in the post that night. I left him a message yesterday asking him to put it in the post forthwith. The postman hasn't been yet this morning. Let's see what happens.

World Cup 2006: walking football
Missed this afternoon's game, and thus Togo's dancing, which is a shame. I wish I'd seen that and worked during France Switzerland. Anyway, here's the latest for those who follow such things.

TUESDAY
South Korea 2 Togo 1
Had to sacrifice one of today's matches. I chose this one. I chose badly.
France 0 Switzerland 0
Well, at least England Paraguay wasn't the worst match of the tournament so far. This was dreadful. I liked the lettering on the back of France's shirts, but that's about it. I still can't quite work out how come their three stars players have all retired from international football, and yet all have made a comeback, Gary Numan style, for the World Cup. I'll take advice on this from those who know better, but isn't that a bad sign? They're all well over 30 and bald. Even Thierry Henry, who is spoken of in hushed tones over here, looked a bit lost over there. But Desailly said before the match that he's not such a big star in France. This game was bad enough, but it was made worse by Mick McCarthy in the ITV commentary box. I've nothing against the Yorkshire accent - my favourite band sing in one - but his is such a monotonous drone. And he actually called somebody a "wally", possibly the ref, who was just trying to win a bet and give a yellow card to everyone on the pitch. He almost did it too.
Brazil 1 Croatia 0
I was looking forward, like everyone else, to Brazil's first match, but mainly so that it would say BRA at the top of the screen, which is really funny. Their reputation and five World Cup wins precede them, but it seems that a certain insouciance sets in, one that starts to look like smugness and not giving much of a toss as long as they win. They are clearly capable of greatness, and what Mark Lawrensen called "walking football", whatever that is. You can tell they're special: almost none of their players need two names. But as Croatia battled hard and consistently (consistently missing chances but at least getting shots in on goal throughout), Brazil just pottered about, holding them to a 1-0 victory after Kaka put a dream-like shot into the top corner of the net before half time. Lawrensen said of Ronaldo in the first half, "He almost looks interested," and joked that he ran faster when he left the field to be substituted in the second half than he had done all match. This is the received view. Alan Hansen also observed of the buck-toothed superstar, "He's carrying some timber" (which means, in Scottish, that he has put on a bit of weight - but we knew that. Look at the way part of that concrete plinth crumbles away beneath his feet on the mobile phone advert.) But you can say what you like about the Brazilians. They win World Cups. This was still an exciting watch, despite the apparent lack of effort by one team. You had to admire the Croatians for their pluck and strength - the supporters, obviously, who were magnificent. Looking in their red and white check like a giant gingham picnic blanket laid out over the stands of Berlin's mighty Olympiastadion, their communal singing towards the end, when it was clear they were getting nil points, was like a warm balm washing over you. Hypnotic.

I shall miss two out of three matches tomorrow, as it's back to the office. Still, Germany Poland's got to be worth staying in for.

Misty water-coloured etc.
Is it possible to plug your own website on your own website? Let's see. The reason I started the Where Did It All Go Right? site in the first place, back in 2003, was as a place to put the happy childhood memories readers of my book had started sending me. Once there was a place for them to go, it grew exponentially from there. Clearly, the book's reached a kind of awareness plateau now, but I still get emails from people who've just read it, like Anna from Aylesbury, who got hold of her copy of WDIAGR? at a bookswap in Phuket last December: "I gave them Robinson Crusoe and The Go-between and 70 baht, and got your book. I thought it was much better than Robinson Crusoe, but not quite as good as The Go-between." God bless her. And a couple of weeks back I got another happy childhood memory, from Claire in Sheffield, which I have just posted up, due to an unexpected day off. (Thanks, Lee!) It's a laborious process, in that I have to fire up a special under-the-bonnet programme, and input the copy and edit it, but there it is, I have created a new Memories page. I know from my secret software that a lot of new people are arriving at the website blog-first, and long may they continue to do so, but if you haven't checked the Memories section out, you might like it. I can always handle new additions to what is now a vast tapestry of caravan holidays, obscure cousins, scout rituals and colloquial snacks. It's here anyway. Auto-plug over. Shouldn't I be watching some football?

How the vest was worn

It's hot. Too hot. It rained this morning and woke me up. Then it stopped and got hot again. It's well over 30 degrees in London, and too hot to play football properly in Germany, if you're England. This raises a key question, and one that needs answering: is it OK to wear a vest?



This is me on Sunday, at work. I've had this debate with listeners before, but it's a hardy perennial, as are my sleeveless t-shirts. This is not some sad attempt at fashion, as I do not believe such items are fashionable, but they are fantastic to wear in the heat, and I like them. But am I fooling myself? I went to Guildford yesterday and wore a vest, and I think I got away with it. (Incidentally, I have stopped wearing sandals in the summer now, and wear hardy, walking trainers with those tiny, invisible short socks underneath. A great invention. I saw a really hard-looking tattoed skinhead in a British bulldog t-shirt on East Croydon platform on Sunday and he had them on, and the very idea of it made me smile. Such dainty socks for such a scary looking gentleman.) Anyway, back to the vest . . .



Just a little something to exercise your hot minds while we wait for another football match to start. (Hope that small morsel of non-football-related blog helps, Graham!)

World Cup 2006: the facts
I appear to be unqualified to give an opinion (see: comments passim), so I would say I'll stick to the facts as I see them, but there may be a stray opinion in here as well, so be warned. As long as it's understood that, to an extent, I don't know what I'm talking about!
MONDAY
Australia 3 Japan 1
Too busy writing sitcom to watch this, but I gather it was very exciting towards the end when Australia suddenly scored three goals in nine minutes.
USA 0 Czech Republic 3
Absolutely terrific first two goals from Koller and Rosicky of Czech Republic (first appearance in World Cup under post-1993 name), then, five minutes before the second half, "wretched luck" to use the words of commentator Simon Brotherton (I think), as Koller pulled his hamstring and was stretchered off, leaving the Czechs with neither of their key strikers. If he had been inexplicably taken off by coach Bruckner - a lovely, white-haired old man, who likes chess - then it would have been a bit like Michael Owen's exit. As it is, it was much worse for the Republic. I obviously wanted them to win, just because I wanted the USA to lose. They are triumphalist enough already, without winning football matches against Yurp. They need some international humility. By the way, about four of their players, obviously Communists, didn't sing along to The Star Spangled Banner before the match, in full view of the camera - doesn't that mean they will be arrested and tortured as un-American spies? I wouldn't risk it. I had to go back to the computer while the second half played out (sitcom waits for no man, and Lee is on his way home from Cologne today and he will want to see my homework), but it was Rosicky who made it three.
Italy 2 Ghana 0
In the opening BBC preamble, it was sweet to see Hansen and Martin O'Neill virtually kneeling down before Marcel Desailly. The early evening Berlin sun even gave him something of a halo. Come on, chaps, there's a game about to start! Cracking first half, not least because we heard John Motson say, "Totti's in space." Well, he is a bit of a superhero and you wouldn't put it past him. Toni looked like he'd be the man to score, banging one off the crossbar in the 29th minute. Or was it Totti? Motti kept getting the pair of them mixed up anyway. You had to love the Ghanaians, who held the slightly-off-form Italians for most of the first half, only letting in a cannonball shot from Pirlo outside the box in the 40th minute that the keeper, Kingston, couldn't see, due to there being, like, a dozen players in between him and it. This changed the dynamic of the game. It was clear that Italy needed a goal to find their swagger, and what little I know of Italian football, I expected them to sit on it and protect it like an egg in the second half. This, they mostly did, but, after being stretchered off in apparent agony after a post-offside-flag foul by Samuel Kuffour, a long-haired bloke called Iaquinta made a miraculous recovery (must have been all that crossing and ring-kissing the Italians do) and popped one in after all the other players had kindly vacated half the pitch, making it an unassailable 2-0 in the 83rd. Some desperate fouling by the Ghanaians in this half merely illustrated their frustration at all the chances they had failed to finish, and all the wild shots off-goal. Mind you, the Italians did a lot of amateur dramatics. I thought it neat the way the Italian strip was designed to look as if the players had big sweat patches under their arms before they'd started playing in the heat. This gave them the advantage.

Seemed like a good day of football, from what I saw. The Ghana shirts looked like they were being worn backwards. Oh, and it was Motson who gave us today's headline, referring to the Italian keeper.

World Cup 2006: half day
They needed to show some ambition, Angola. I know this because the humourless David Pleat kept saying so. Nevertheless, they didn't show enough, and lost to Portugal. My friend Lee Mack was at this match. I couldn't see him. In fact, I missed a lot of yesterday's action, due to having to do a three-hour radio show, put in about two hours' "prep" (ie. reading the Sunday papers, going over the running order etc.), and having to travel about two and a half hours to get in to Central London from Reigate and back. That's the best part of a day. Results service:

SUNDAY
Serbio & Montenegro 0 Holland 1
Missed this. Another hard-fought victory from one of the seeded teams. The Serbs have a player called S Milosovic. Isn't that a bit like being a German called Hitler? (I said "a bit like".)
Mexico 3 Iran 1
Came home in time for the bulk of the second half, but found it difficult to get into. A clean game. At the end of the first half they had 0 minutes stoppage time, which tells you how smooth it was. As Iran move into "constuctive discussion" about their nuclear programme at home, their players put on a strong showing against the South Americans, but the two goals I saw put them in a different league. I liked the way the Mexicans use the Mexico 70 typeface for the names on the backs of their shirts. I am quite fascinated by the lettering used by different teams. Germany's is very stern. Angola's, all lower case, no upper case, is modern, but only in a 1980s sort of way. And Costa Rica looked like they'd had their strip made up at a t-shirt shop on the way to San Jose Airport - the jaunty, drop-shadowed lettering looked like the kind you'd get on the side of a mobile disco. Curious. And probably irrelevant to David Pleat. He's missing out.
Portugal 1 Angola 0
Although the politics was different, with Angola being a former colony of Portugal, this was remarkably similar to England Paraguay. The favourites got an early goal in (Pauleta, five minutes, none of your rubbish) and then spent the rest of the game clinging to it, with their star player, Ronaldo, being inexplicably taken off at the start of the second half, suitably frustrated. Enjoyable match nonetheless, as it's always good to see a smaller team prove more than a match for the favourites, and Angola had some worthy chances. What they lacked was a number of players with just one name. Even though they do actually have first names, Portuagal's Figo, Ricardo, Costinha, Tiago, Pauleta, and even second keeper Quim (ha ha) dispense with them, and like Madonna, Chico and Batman, trade without. This means their whole name is on the back of their shirt, which must be a psychological advantage. Pauleta's actual first name is Pedro.

I'm already getting frustrated knowing that work will prevent me from watching all three matches most days this coming week, except Thursday, when I suspect Lee will let us off early to get home in time for the 5pm kickoff for England Trinidad. Today, for instance, I am writing from home, but won't be able to justify clocking off for Australia Japan at 2pm. Let's see how much hilarious sitcom I can get written in this heat and aim for USA Czech Republic at 5pm. Thank God these things only happen once every two years.

World Cup 2006: vague, ill-informed ramblings of a part-timer whose opinion is worth nothing because he doesn't follow club football
I actually went to bed last night singing (in my head, not out loud), "football's coming home." Not because it is, not after England's ropey, send-out-the-wrong-message second-half performance against Paraguay, but because it got into my head and refused to leave. Just as the football itself got into my body and refused to leave. I have watched five full games of football in two days. The opening five of the World Cup. I am more self-conscious writing about them after the dialogue with Alfie on here following my report on the Hungary friendly. He made clear that I am not to have an opinion, as I don't follow football as a lifestyle choice, and, for instance, had never seen Peter Crouch in my life until he came on at Old Trafford. I am better informed now than I was then, as I have the Guardian's excellent pull-out guide at my side, already well-thumbed for information on who the players play for the rest of the time (most of Argentina play for Spanish clubs, that type of thing), how old they are (Shaka Hislop, the superb Trinidadian goalie, is 37, the oldest player at the tournament) and, if they were a shoe, what kind of shoe they would be (Saudi Arabia would be a pair of flip-flops given away free with a women's magazine). So here goes:

FRIDAY
Germany 4 Costa Rica 2
Goal-filled opening match (a World Cup record!), always a happy occasion for greedy fairweather football fans, and one at six minutes in. Good start. Germany the better team, but heartening to see Costa Rica give them a run for their money. You kind of have to support the underdog, don't you? It's nothing to do with any stupid, baseless, anti-German feeling. Oh, and if anyone uses the phrase, "German highlights" they're not talking about the coverage, but about their hair.
Poland 0 Equador 2
Now we're in. Second match featuring two teams that aren't England, getting a feel for the shape of Group A, no particular favourite, but thrilling to see a surprise win for the outsiders, Senegal style. (Hark at me with my back-reference to a previous tournament!)
SATURDAY
England 1 Paraguay 0
Truly excited when I woke up yesterday morning. Unlike the previous day's games (around which I was dashing back upstairs to write the sitcom), I sat down for this the moment BBC1's coverage began, to wallow in the build-up. A good juncture to state that the BBC pundits (Hansen, Shearer, Wright, Motson, Lawrensen) easily outshine the ITV team (Venables, Pearce, Allardyce, Tyldsley, boring Southgate). Also, they have a much bigger coffee table. My friend Lee Mack was at this match, but I couldn't see him. Having said that, I couldn't see the match either, as the stadium in Frankfurt has a big telly suspended over the halfway line which casts a monstrous, spider-shaped shadow over the pitch, thus making comfortable viewing of the game impossible. Somehow, we struggled through, leaping off the sofa for Beckham's free-kick goal, helpfully assisted by defender Carlos Gamarra. England looked as confident and assured as everybody said they were in the first half, with Paraguay's goalie being replaced early on due to a bad foot, and Owen and Crouch looking like they played together. And then, in the second half - and I don't understand managers and tactics, so allow me this gut opinion - Sven Goran Eriksson mucked it all up by taking Owen off, leaving Crouch looking like the gangly spare part he must have looked at school, and giving Beckham nobody to pass to. Thus the second half was painful. If it really is about sending out messages, England's was: we have a strange coach and we don't understand him with his Bergmanesque pronouncements and his unknowable reactions; he is a mystery as deep as the Swedish soul. Not a nice experience, and not, fundamentally, the team's fault. And what a strange ref: Marco Rodriguez from Mexico, with his severly greased-back black hair and his eccentric decisions, usually in Paraguay's favour, getting all hot under the collar about players having a drink of water in thirty-degree heat. Don't want to draw him again. Impressed with our keeper (I think goalie is a bit of a 70s word, but that was when I really followed football so please forgive me), Robinson, described as a "big banana" by Mark Lawrensen, who I have a soft spot for, although I expect that's the wrong opinion, I don't care.
Trinidad & Tobego 0 Sweden 0
Now this was a match. Again, the underdogs holding off a more experienced side, but it was so much more restful to watch, with long, accurate passing, and, despite the sending-off of Avery John, leaving Trinidad a man down for most of the match, an even spread of possession. Sweden just could not convert, but Trinidad defended so doggedly, and what a tremendous performance from Shaka Hislop, last-minute replacement apparently. Just shows that goal-count is no reflection of a match. And how nice to see a game without shadowy diagonal lines across the pitch. I have Sweden in the 6 Music sweepstake.
Argentina 2 Cote D'Ivoire 1
And another fine display, with one of the favourites to win being held in at least a degree of check by a less experienced team (albeit top of the African qualifiers). Some very long hair in the Argentina squad. Both these matches made the England one look scratchy and frustrating in retrospect, but maybe that's just because it's England, and we care more.

Due to 6 Music, I'll miss one and a half of today's games. I'm unhappy about that, but I have to work to pay for the crisps.

By all means add your own comments on the games, but try to refrain from telling me I'm wrong. I'm having fun here.