Tonight’s agony is softened by the knowledge that the journey is indeed, mercifully, over. I confess to switching over to Nadal v Del Potro for light relief – and that was as tense and brilliant a tennis match as anyone could wish to see. But I didn’t care as much – and that is why it was easier to view.
My enjoyment of the World Cup has been immeasurably enhanced by my stoic refusal to listen to the pre and post match punditry. What a revelation! When you just get the soccer- warts and all – you can almost enjoy the tedium of the sideways and backward passing which dominates the modern game, for the thrill of those occasional thrusts which result in a ‘set piece’, a penalty or the odd ‘open play goal’. As soon as Shearer et al get on the mic we are all doomed to be swamped in such verbal excrement that we pray for yet another interview with our next Prime Minister, Gareth ‘the God’ Southgate.
I confess to a few glasses of Viognier while our boys were succumbing. Croatia v France is a worthy final. Our boys falling at the semi-final hurdle has enabled me, somewhat hastily, to book Paul Simon at Hyde Park on Sunday. I’ll have Luca Modric on my iPhone and The Boy in the Bubble up close and personal. James Taylor will be crooning too. Heaven.
Wimbledon has been wonderful, they tell me, and I must now catch up. Someone said Roger lost today. It’s a wind-up surely?
simplysorro 
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