It takes quite a lot for me to feel even mildly sympathetic towards the French, but they had my support against the semi-reformed death squad of Honduras. One should not put too much store by the character of a country’s football team – but watching the way in which the Central Americans set about France, much as they had previously set about England, it did not wholly surprise one that the benighted mosquito-ravaged country has the highest murder rate in the world. Yes, including Iraq. Its murder rate is not far off double the next contenders (all of whom come from the Caribbean, natch).
I’m writing this before Argentina’s game against Bosnia and Herzegovina; I don’t think I could bear to contemplate the Argies and the French winning on the same day. It’s meant to be bloody Father’s Day, after all. We now have to suffer an hour of fawning over the exquisitely talented half-wit, Lionel Messi.
Just to say, though – where is Alan Hansen? Where is Mark Lawrenson? Can we suffer Robbie Savage’s banalities, Thierry Henry’s comic impersonation of a wry and laconic Frenchman and Phil Neville’s mogadon monotone drawl for much longer? BBC, you chose bad this time around. Very bad.
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