Arrival in New York City

I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t you dare even mention Heskey, or Rooney’s antics, or whatever the fuck is going on with John Terry. Like my dinner in Washington DC with the girl I haven’t seen in two years, who can only be described as “the one that got away… and then started dancing on the pieces of my broken heart”, I don’t want to talk about it.

French coach Raymond Domenech has lead his team into chaos following the club's dismissal of striker Nicolas Anelka.

Lets discuss the France saga, or as I like to call it, the best thing that has ever happened in history since the Battle of Waterloo. I hope France do go through to the next round, just so that they prolong the drama until its inevitable climax: Coach Raymond Domenech (moron) will get mauled by France Captain Patrice Evra, who will then tie him to a stick and burn him. Then, when he is truly crispy the French team will eat him in unison, while drinking wine made partially from his blood. You heard it here first.

One thing I have noticed watching the games in America: You people love your stats, the more obscure and specific, the better. “The first African nation to win a game in an African World Cup, in Cape Town, on a Friday, while eating an ice-lolly with his right hand and tickling a monkey’s stomach with his left.”

World Cup statistics are completely useless. They are referring to teams that played four, eight, or sixteen years ago. Since then some of these players have developed long-term cocaine and alcohol addictions, staunch communist views and eventually have become Argentina manager (specifically Diego Maradonna).

I am loving ESPN, though. The commentators are coming up with gems such as: “The Swiss defense are tighter than a taxman’s wallet.” And Ally Mccoist has proved himself as the joker I always thought him to be.

The panel doesn’t look too bad either. Ruud Gullit looks exactly like my white uncle. Alexi Lalas looks like a dumbass. Steve McManaman looks like he might end up killing himself or Alexi Lalas. If England loses, they’ll cut to the ESPN studio and all you’ll see are Steve McManaman’s legs dangling from the ceiling. “We’ll be right back.”

I have now arrived in the cosmopolitan Jacuzzi that is New York City after stopping in Philadelphia to watch the England match, if you can call it a football match. More like a complete capitulation of heart and will by overpaid prima donnas … but we agreed, we’re not going to talk about it. While in New York City I plan to go to pubs where supporters from different countries have congregated and maybe, just maybe, claim allegiance to a country that doesn’t suck.