World Cup 2006: and in third place
Nice to have a match on with an 8 o'clock kickoff, meaning those of us who go to work on a Saturday can do just that, and still be home in time to eat roast chicken and be sat in front of the screen for the action.

Germany 3 Portugal 1
Well, Martin O'Neill called it "the most meaningless game of the World Cup," to much embarrassed shifting in seats among the BBC pundits at half time. He's right of course. The third-place play-off is never, on paper, a mouth-watering prospect, but with Germany involved, and the pantomime villains Portugal on the other end of them, it had to be good. And it was. (Gary Lineker corrected Martin O'Neill after the final whistle, calling the play-off "one of the greatest adventures in football," presumably for balance.) Such melodrama! Klinsmann put Oliver Kahn in goal; possibly his last international match, so that was loaded with portent, and he did well, albeit occasionally keeping Portugal out by luck, but mostly by skill. Scolari, amid rumours of a bust-up, kept Luis Figo on the bench, despite it being his last match before retirement. Would he play? We all hoped so. And indeed, Big Phil thawed and let him on for the last ten minutes, which were not wasted. But after a horns-locked first half, full of chances and free kicks that amounted to nothing (and a 46th minute dive from boo-magnet Ronaldo that had to be seen in slow motion to be fully appreciated - he was actually pleading to the Japanese ref with his little boy's face as he went to the floor, the cheeky numbskull), the second half was a goalfest, with - seemingly out of nowhere - Schweinsteiger putting three past Ricardo from a near-identical spot each time in the 56th, the 61st and the 78th, albeit with a little help from Portugal's Petit for the middle one, put on at half time for this very purpose perhaps? It all started to fall away for Portugal, but at least they redeemed themselves just before the end, when Figo served up a Nuno Gomes goal, silver service, and won his spurs on his last day at the office.

A good result for Germany, who at least looked as determined as their coach to win this one, meaningless or not. It's sad to see Ronaldo being hissed at, but at the same time, every drama needs a baddie. My headline comes from a homemade German banner, which is nice.

I'll tell you what I like about Nip/Tuck: Season Three, which we've just completed on DVD: its 14 episodes flew by. Despite the crass way it was sold when it debuted on Sky One, and the initially offputting gloss of the look, the Miami-set cosmetic surgery drama has had us hooked in from show one. We were perplexed when Channel 4 let their option expire after season two, and, since we didn't have Sky at that time, were disappointed not to be able to keep up with the unravelling lives of its two surgeons, Sean McNamara (forever worried-looking Dylan Walsh) and Christian Troy (mannequin-like Julian McMahon). So the box set, as is becoming increasingly the case, is the new TV.

At the end of season two, the Carver had appeared to make our heroes' lives a grisly misery - a mysterious serial disfigurer (not a killer at that stage), who cut an ear-to-ear smile in the faces of beautiful women, leading to McNamara Troy getting involved in pro bono work for publicity, and eventually embroiling the pair in the violence. Both Sean and Christian were attacked, and Sean and Julia's (Joely Richardson) funny-lookin' son Matt (John Hensley) found out he was really Christian's, after finding out that his older-woman girlfriend Ava (Famke Janssen) was post-op transgender.

What's great about this series is that just when you think they've done all the possible permutations about cosmetic surgery, the writers come up with some more. This season we had the 480-pound, morbidly obese woman who had fused to the couch she'd been sitting on for three years and had to be surgically removed (to the tune of Elbow's Any Day Now, obviously), the gorilla who needed face surgery in order to mate successfully, the gang-member who wanted his gang tattoos removed, an HIV positive man with hollow cheeks, two students with their faces superglued to a third's arse after a fraternity prank, the woman who wanted to look like her younger self so that her Alzheimer's husband would recognise her again (that was a sad episode), and they even threw in the ER influenced plane crash episode (cue: lots of first degree burns). This was the most inventive season yet, and all the while, our characters' lives fell to bits, with Sean and Julia going through the pain of separation, Matt dallying first with a transexual, then a girl with a far-right Nazi father (two storylines that later merged), and Christian attempting to put his life in order by marrying ex-porn star Kimber (Kelly Carlson) - guess how well that went - all the while haunted by his own Carver attack, during which he was anally raped, with a strap-on. And there was a storyline about face cream made from sperm that involved the real Joan Rivers, as herself. Camp? You could say that.

This show is not for Daily Mail readers. Dealing with taboo issues is its badge of honour, and the gruesomely realistic surgery scenes still casually punctuate. Despite the glamorous sheen and the ho-hum professional attitude to surgical vandalism, Nip/Tuck constantly asks questions, and Sean and Christian both have their moments of doubt. The introduction of Quentin Costa (the brilliantly-named Bruno Campos), the new surgeon drafted in while Christian convalesced, apparently bisexual, really mixed things up well, and of course the Carver arc gave the whole series somewhere definite to go, with the weirdo's identity revealed in the "season finale" (ie. last show). Vanessa Redgrave provided great moments of comedy as Julia's mother, and Rhona Mitra (who used to be the 3D version of Lara Croft) made an impact as the English homicide detective. Season four airs, on US cable channel FX (where it is apparently the most-watched cable show, with upwards of 5.7 milllion viewers), in September. Do we get FX? I'll have to check.

" ... where life has no meaning, and survival is the only thing that matters." What overwrought bollocks. Welcome to the Miramax trailer for Tsotsi. "Now, the past he has forgotten, will give him hope for the future he could never have imagined. " I mean, to coin a phrase, who writes this shit? The other key thing you'll have noted about this trailer, which was on heavy rotation in cinemas, is that even though it's clearly set in a foreign land (a place without hope, you see), you do not hear a word of dialogue spoken in it, just the insincere-sounding voiceover man. It's almost as if, hmmmmmm, they don't want to put you off seeing the film by giving away that it's in a foreign language. I've seen this trick before - trailers for other big, Hollywood-distrubuted foreign-language films like Amelie and A Very Long Engagement and The Chorus were similarly unemcumbered by clues as to their nationality. Such details are only in small print on the DVD boxes too. (I once heard an assistant at Blockbuster warn two punters that Amelie was subtitled before they paid for it. On learning this, they put it back. The shop had clearly had complaints before and was covering its arse.) Now, are cinema and rental audiences stupid, or do we just behave stupidly because the studios and the marketing departments treat us as stupid?

Tsotsi is mostly spoken in a South African street patois. It's fascinating to listen to, as you can recognise a lot of English words, there's a bit of French in there too, and, presumably, Dutch. It's not an especially pretty language on the ear, but deal with it. This is a slice of life you just don't see depicted in films very much; certainly African films rarely get an international release, so that most of the images and stories based in Africa we see are viewed through the prism of Western eyes or colonial intervention (recent examples: Hotel Rwanda, The Constant Gardener). Tsotsi, which means "thug", is set among the townships of Soweto, where poor black kids, including the titular junior gangster, travel into Johannesberg to rob rich black people and redistribute their wealth, with sometimes fatal consequences. This is not a film about race, but about class, or at least the class system that results from capitalism. At one stage, Tsotsi (played with incredible depth by Presley Chweneyagae) even threatens and humiliates a crippled tramp, also black. The only white face we see in the film is a cop, and he's not set up as the villain - indeed, his black deputies seem far more trigger happy. This is what makes the film so fascinating. Totsi seems cold and heartless. What is his problem? What happened to his parents?

It's gritty, yes, and unyeilding in what it portrays - it's been compared to City Of God - and yet it's beautiful to look at, with blood-red skies and lighting that's almost magical-realist, bordering on pop video style. This doesn't subtract from the reality of the drama. I'm not giving anything away that's not in the trailer by telling you that Tsotsi finds a baby in the back of a car he's nicked and this offers him redemption from his "life with no meaning". I strongly recommend you rent it when it comes out on DVD on July 17. I'm so glad I saw it, and no wonder it won the audience award at Edinburgh, which led to the Miramax deal, and the subsequent Oscar. There's no point bitching about the way it's sold, even though I just have, as it's surely better that more people see it. It's very moving, disarmingly simple, and a breath of fresh air after way too many American films in a row. (Oh, and another thing I hated about the trailer is the tantalising shot of a woman undoing her dress and turning round to face us. It looks sexual in the trailer, but in the film it turns out she is about to breast-feed a baby. Oh, how they trick us with our soft minds!)

"He was trapped in a trailer without subtlety . . . where voiceover has no meaning . . . and reassuring Western audiences is all that matters . . . "

Went for a haircut with Laura at Toni & Guy in Reigate. Nothing revolutionary. Just a trim. But while I was there, I noticed something that has far-reaching cultural significance. Toni & Guy have their own in-house TV station (it's called Toni & Guy TV), piping a constant feed of pop videos onto screens placed around the salon, with the occasional advert for ladies' hair products with distressed typewriter lettering on the side. I have watched a lot of Toni & Guy TV in my time, and I have noticed that it's mostly glossy pop music. But not today. While having my hair washed, conditioned (mmmmmm ... peppermint), cut and dried, I saw The Rakes (All Too Human), followed by the Mystery Jets (You Can't Fool Me Dennis), followed by Starsailor ( cheap dig removed by author due to pricked conscience), followed by Belle & Sebastian (that one set in the laundrette), followed by an advert for etc. etc. This was a 100% indie hairdressing experience. Pop is dead. Indie has taken over the world.

I tipped the young man who washed my hair two pounds today, instead of my usual one pound. I don't know why. One pound suddenly felt a bit insulting. I hope he appreciates it. (Laura got more than that, obviously.)

World Cup 2006: almost there
Made sure the chicken was eaten in good time for tonight's match. After last night's it was always going to be slight letdown. Much cooler today at home, thanks to occasional showers all day. I had a haircut, which will form a separate entry.

France 1 Portugal 0
John Motson called France "the most offensive team" of the opening moments of this semi final. I know what he meant, but Portugal were far more offensive, not least Ronaldo, whose every touch was greeted with pantomime booing and whistling from elements of the crowd. (Were they England fans who'd already bought their Munich tickets, making their own entertainment? If so, there were either a lot of them, or they were very good at booing and whistling.) I couldn't help but smile - and perhaps even wink - each time the Ronaldo chorus rang out. It should have got annoying. It didn't. I was hoping for a better performance by my favourite team, but they comprehesively failed to dominate the first half. Portugal had more shots. However, they were up to their usual tricks, appealing for free kicks incessantly, melodramatically throwing themselves in front of the Uraguayan ref, who was having none of it, and, frankly, fouling. Ironically, it was what looked like an accidental trip-up on Henry that gave France the penalty, which Zidane skilfully put home, aged 33, in the 33rd minute (his 30th goal for France). Scolari was going nuts. But not as nuts as he went after the final whistle. In the second half, I'm unhappy to say, France defended their one goal like Italians, but it was Portugal's failing in the end not to equalise. Unfortunately for them, they spent too much energy on diving, and not enough on playing football. Ronaldo, trailing boos and whistles like Pigpen used to trail dust on Charlie Brown, was the most blatant offender, and yet no yellow card was forthcoming for this pathetic tactic. It almost went their way in the final few minutes, when even Ricardo left his goal to help jam the French box for two successive corners, risking much, but getting away with it. I'm not sure what Scolari was specifically aggrieved about come the whistle, perhaps the offside flag that disallowed Portugal's final chance from Ronaldo, which Barthez saved anyway, but he made a tit of himself harraguing the ref when his players were doing manly hugs through their tears. If only the German TV director wasn't obsessed with showing shots of the old French manager in the stands.

So, France Italy final. Should be interesting. France looked a bit knackered come the end of this one, not least Zidane. Get some sleep.

World Cup 2006: this time it's personal
How nice to have some football on again. It's been too long. Sweltering day spent sorting out magazines for the recycling lorry. It's amazing how many have gone up the drive. I also wrote a piece for Word, having yet to be called up for script polishing by Not Going Out. There is still time.

Germany 0 Italy 2 (after extra time)
West Germany, as John Motson called them the other night (oops), and Italy were well-matched throughout the 90 minutes, which meant no goals but maximum action. Italy had more fire in them, but Germany were, as Clyde Tyldesley said, composed. David Pleat, who provided the Colemanball above about every trick in the trade, waffled about making sure his wife was taping the match, as it was "one for the purists". (I'm sure ITV would get him a copy on disc.) It really was a pleasure to watch, and wasn't as dirty as it might have been, despite the grudge element (an Italian newspaper had printed a grab of Frings, implicating him in the post-Argentina match scuffles and Fifa banned him from this one). A bit of "operatic" reaction to physical contact by the Italians, but a minimum of yellow shown, and some very wise refereeing from the Mexican, who kept the game going. When it went to extra time, everybody was mentally preparing for penalties - oh, except for the Italians, who came out fighting, perhaps secure in the knowledge that they would lose a shootout (they've only ever won once on penalties, and that was when Holland missed all five, while the Germans have only ever lost once). Within the first few minutes, Italy had two fiery shots off the woodwork. To be fair, the Germans never looked like they were cruising for penalties. The play was so action-packed there was barely time to show replays, with the ball back up the other end by force of will within seconds of any thwarted shot, and the last half-hour, despite exhaustion setting in (notably Ballack, who wasn't going to be substituted for obvious penalty-spot-related reasons), was as exciting as any we've seen this World Cup. And I'd be saying that even if Grosso hadn't scored in the 29th minute, off a beautifully judged cross from Pirlo. This little beauty, curled in, was surely the finest of the tournament. Pure poetry. Imagine if Italy hadn't scored again, a minute later! This time it was Del Piero. After an evenly-matched contest, the Italians, at this point, richly deserved their place in the final. It may have been the fear of penalties that drove them to it, but who cares? It is a shame that the German keeper Lehmann, so sure and so reliable throughout, should blot his copybook twice before the end. Both teams can be proud of providing the best 120 minutes of football of the cup so far (they both "played like men", according to Clyde, which was handy, since they were men, and not women, or kangaroos, or birds), and either would have made the final a cracker. I wanted the hosts to go through and play France, but better to see a quarter final won with this much passion within playing time. As Clyde was moved to say: magnifico.

Join The IRA!
Sorry about that, but reading some of the advance reviews for Ken Loach's The Wind That Shakes The Barley, you'd be forgiven for thinking that it's some kind of recruitment film for the IRA, a Top Gun for the Republican army. When I say advance reviews, most of the high-handed guff written around the time of the film's premiere at Cannes (where it won the Palme D'Or) was by journalists who hadn't actually seen it. The Times compared Loach with Leni Riefenstahl - a fine filmmaker, but that wasn't what they meant. The Mail asked: "Why does Ken Loach loathe his country so much?" and the Sun tried this sophisticated line of argument: "Top Cannes film is most pro-IRA ever (and, yes, it did get a Lotto grant)." Topping them all was Simon Heffer in the Telegraph: "He hates this country, yet leeches off it, using public funds to make his repulsive films. And no, I haven't seen it, any more than I need to read Mein Kampf to know what a louse Hitler was."

All of which hardens my appreciation of Loach, who is surely one of the truly essential British filmmakers. His recent Bafta Fellowship speech provided a rare display of substance and sincerity at another evening of vacuous irrelevence. The Wind That Shakes The Barley is a beautiful, powerful film. Anti-British only in the sense that its viewpoint is that of the oppressed rather than the oppressor. In 1920s Ireland, we see the frustrated violence of the Black and Tans established in scene one, causing Cillian Murphy's doctor, Damien, to curtail his trip to London and join the armed resistance with his brother Teddy, played by newcomer Padraic Delaney. But it's not just about fighting the British. When Sinn Fein negotiate the treaty with Lloyd George in 1921, the Republicans are divided into those who are for the compromise and those who are against, which drives an ideological wedge between the two brothers. There is still violence even after the British army are seen marching out of Ireland. Certainly, the only halfway sympathetic British soldier we see is a young prison guard who lets a gang of Republicans out of jail (his father, he reveals, was from Donegal), and the most rounded British character is a typically aristocratic landowner who looked a bit like Christopher Hitchens in tweed, but when conflict is by turns both sloganeeringly simplistic (British out, independence for Ireland) and troublesomely complex (we see a punitive Republican court disrupted when an Irish landlord is fined for repressing poor tenants and Teddy pays him off outside as his money helps to buy weapons, causing a part-improvised ideological argument worthy of Land And Freedom), Loach should be applauded for taking it on at all, not pilloried for being a self-loathing Brit. I felt like one watching events ufold. It's a healthy state of mind when so much blood has been spilled and long-term misery sown by British colonial adventure.

The film acts as a grittier, more personal answer to the Hollywoodised Michael Collins - important in its own way, for bringing this chapter of history to the fore, but ultimately too neat in its portayal of events. The heroes in Loach's film are ordinary men driven to fight, not inspirational orators or politicians. Warning: this is brutal film. It's the second time in six months I've been to the cinema to see fingernails being graphically pulled out with pliers. (Michael Gove MP, of course, railed against the portayal of the Black and Tans as merceneries who "ripped out toenails". If you're going to froth, froth accurately.)

What's most upsetting about the film is how recently it all took place. As we remember the Somme, and rightly so, let us not forget our shameful armed intervention in Ireland. We saw the nauseating trailer for Oliver Stone's World Trade Center ("THE WORLD SAW EVIL THAT DAY - TWO MEN SAW SOMETHING ELSE"). Now you shouldn't judge a film by its trailer, but on the face of it, this is also propaganda ("EVIL"?), but propaganda for the status quo. I find it much more stimulating when it's the other way around. If anything, Stone is Reifenstahl.




If I like Ireland so much why don't I go and live there?
I'd like to, one day, actually. John McGahern died of cancer, aged 71, in March, and his death was greeted with such adoring tribute ("arguably the most important Irish novelist since Samuel Beckett"), I was moved to seek out his work. I was surprised at the poor stock of his books in Borders (just the one, in fact) and ordered some online from a bookstore in Dublin. I've just finished Amongst Women, written in 1990, and perhaps his most famous work after The Dark, written in 1965 and banned in Ireland, sending him into partial exile for ten years, scarred by the experience permanently, it seems. McGahern made his home in Country Leitrim, running a small farm, and this is the setting, I understand, for many of his books. Amongst Women tells the tale of a grumpy patriarch, Moran, who fought for the Republican army in the 1920s, a past that haunts and defines him, even though it is rarely mentioned in the book (clever writing), as he watches his three daughters and youngest son grow up and fly the nest, to Dublin, and to London. Set around the 1950s it paints an economincal but vivid portrait of rural Ireland, and touches on every aspect of family: the unspoken love, the pain of separation, the disappointment when sons and daughters turn out differently to expectation, all spiced with the ritual of religious faith and the daily recitation of the Rosary. Although Ireland is the very model of a modern European country these days, it retains the character captured in McGahern's writing, especially in the countryside. Reading this book, whose quiet, unshowy genius seems to be sheer simplicity and authenticity, made me want to go back to Ireland. We've only been once this year, for a couple of days, and I miss Galway.