Well, that was the final, then. As with so many matches over the last month or so, commentators, anchormen and pundits alike rushed to emphasise that despite a lack of genuine quality, the match at least contained undeniable dollops of drama... as if quality and drama are mutually exclusive in a football match: no hat-tricks but lots of red cards, eh? Anyway, if you're going to have a World Cup Final filled with drama then it may as well be drama, and at least in this respect last night's match didn't let the average viewer down. It was, verily, a weekend of high-quality drama from the BBC! (see gratuitous photo, below)

Straight up, no sooner had Motty finished an introductory 3 minutes comprised entirely of statstics then one of said stats reared its ugly head in a kind-of relevant way - it went along the lines of "all finals have had quiet starts since the Holland v Germany final of '74 when a penalty was conceded straight away"... and then Malouda goes down under the slightest of slight touches from Materazzi, and Les Blancs have a pen within 5 minutes.

DRAMA!

Up steps Zinedine Zidane, the praises of the world's press still ringing in his ears, to convert the spot-kick with a cheeky dink about two inches away from making him look the biggest bell-end in the world - showing Lineker and Crouch how it's done, the poxy git. It's in off the crossbar and then out again!

DRAMA!

So what do Italy do? Play for the 1-0 loss? Far from it - this Marcelo Lippi's Italy so they come out all guns blazing... well, all guns except for Totti, Perrotta and Camoranesi, that is. Irrespective, they win a corner, Pirlo shakes his hair and minces over to the corner flag, and whips in a gorgeous cross onto the head of erstwhile villain Materazzi - Barthez flaps - and it's in the back of the net! 1-1 with less than twenty minutes played in the World Cup Final.

DRAMA!

The match continues. In the second half, Italy retreat inside their shell, where they find another, smaller, shell, which they also retreat into. France come at them with a surprising degree of individual flair (Malouda proves the surprise) but little cohesion and, er, no strikers - Henry makes some lovely runs before passing to no-one, while Malouda makes some equally effective incursions into the shell before crossing to that very same no-one. How very Portugal.

Italy really do seem content to play out time - despite an array of ostensibly attacking substitutions (Iaquinta, Del Piero and, um, De Rossi) they let wave after ineffectual wave of French attacking wash over their rocks (Cannavaro being the rockiest rock of all). Not much happens, despite all the

TENSION!

so let me cut to the chase:

110 minutes, the game is heading towards penalties. Zidane loses his cool a little bit and decides to nut Materazzi to oblivion. Uncertain delay follows, during which football experiences what in all likelihood shall prove an evolutionary leap - despite FIFA's protestations to the contrary, I find it hard to believe that the referee came to his decision to show Zizou the red card without someone, somewhere, seeing a replay and telling him the score.

I also imagine that, soon after the butt, Clive Tyldesley's head exploded on ITV - not that anyone would have noticed - as he struggled to comprehend "just... why... Zizou... magician... conjuror.... head-butt.... Final.... does... not... compute........ oooooohhhhhhhhhhhh who's going to present Jim'll Fix It nooooooooooow"

Well: video, not video, assistant referee, fourth official, fifth official - whatever, the decision was correct. Which makes you think..... what the hell was Zidane thinking?

The obvious answer is that Materazzi said something unsavoury. I'd speculate, however, that it was all part of a master plan on the part of either Zidane or God himself.

Zidane understandably wanted to go down in history after participating in a stonking World Cup Final - scoring twice against Brazil just wasn't enough. 110 minutes in, and the match is heading to pens; he's feeling a bit nervous about the prospect of taking one after his moment of good fortune earlier, and besides, it's only the Italians - when have they ever been good at taking penalties? France will prevail without their captain, thinks their captain. Now is the time to make an indelible mark on the game. Have it.

Or God, and the God theory is a bit more entertaining. God was apparently the reason Zidane returned to international football, but the specifics of his celestial visitation have remained shrouded in secrecy - until now.

God appeared to Zizou at the foot of his bed, wearing a Platini shirt and holding a photograph in his hand:

That's right - the foul on Malouda, the penalty, the equaliser, the sending off - all were parts of the continuing fight between the forces of Good and the forces of Evil.

This half-baked theory is a bit more Dan Brown than I'd care for but the evidence is simply undeniable.

While I don't want to link Materazzi to the Devil (not explicitly, anyway - though I'm sure Rob might) the manner of Nesta's unfortunate injury and Materazzi's subsequent promotion and success do scream out: PACT! He was number 23, for crying out loud - only just made the squad...

And do you not think it odd just how holy and monk-like Zidane has become throughout his life as a footballer? Finishing his career playing for a team dressed head-to-toe in white, and then encouraging Les Bleus to do likewise for most of the World Cup (he was shit in blue, you'll remember)? Playing for a non-managing manager whose name just so happens to be a cunning anagram of "RD: a code hymn omen"? There's something a-brewing, something conspiracy-like - why the use of Peter Kay's Amarillo song at an international sports event such as last night, for example. Why? And how was it at no. 1 for so long? It also cropped up at Wimbledon in the background. This is big, very big. Just how did Nadal get such rippling biceps? I'm thinking Bad Wolf, I'm thinking Torchwood. Jim Rosenthal is probably involved somehow, too.

Aaaaaaaaaanyway, I've obviously been watching too much Dr. Who.

In other news: Simone Perrotta's actual function was finally revealed, courtesy of an insightful text from my brother. It seems that, along with the non-tackling holding midfielder, another new position has been born of this World Cup: the wide midfielder who neither defends nor attacks - indeed, the wide midfielder who has no discernible function other than to tuck in and allow his full-back to attack. At last, I have found my niche in international football - drop Joe Cole, get Ashley back to full fitness and I'm sure I can prove most adept at threatening to break into the opposition half, before retreating to the half-way line, before threatening to get back and defend, before advancing to the half-way line. If it works for the World Champions then it can bloody well work for us. Get McClaren on the blower now.

Camoranesi also made me sit up and take notice of his existence - albeit after the shoot-out - by taking part in an obviously pre-planed post-match ritual which was part team bonding, part Lord of the Flies: on a chair surrounded by his manic team-mates, his pony tail was ceremoniously lopped off. This new shorn style, of course, excludes him from the blog's Pirates XI (which only has about half a team anyway - maybe we should just get a 5-a-side team together) thus leaving a vacancy for a slightly overrated but energetic right-winger with the odd great touch and the odd piece of dodgy distribution. Thank goodness, then, for Franck 'Scarface' Ribery - as Rob pointed out, those scars aren't from a car crash, they're from Fabien Barthez's cutlass.

Good penalties, by the way - Italy showed all nations who consider themselves shit ("unlucky") at penalties precisely how to do it. (Get McClaren on the blowe....) Totti's ignominious performance and exit midway through the second half meant that the Italian Golden Boy on-field at the end was Del Piero (pictured) whose penalty was as assured as his team-mates.

Ok, with that final lookalike shoe-horned in, that about does it from me. My plan is to get back on here at some point this week and do a best/worst list - anything to keep the World Cup in my head for a bit longer, it seems. But then maybe I won't, maybe it's best just to let the whole thing go. If that turns out to be the case, then it's been a lot of fun to write this thing and maybe four years down the line we could do it again, only with a decent lay-out and people paying us. Yeah.

Cheers - Rob, hit the lights on your way out.

Well what a great match it was last night, etc... recurrent characteristics of Germany 2006 cropped up for possibly the last time: a few Shoot 5-assisted goals, and a few bizarre tangents from Martin O'Neill ("have you ever seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?") and some slightly gushy praise for a member of the Old Guard, in this case Luis Filipe Madeira Figo (if I remember his Champ Man name correctly). And some unstintingly patriotic denigration of dirty Portugal's horrible players and terrible, terrible striker... the BBC need to get over it. (He said, head in oven.)

Anyway.

I'm here to stick on a few World Cup photos, with neiter illuminating caption nor indeed any jot of context. Here they are:

So. One match left, and then it's all over. Probably got one or two more posts left in me and then this blog will have served it's purpose.

Until South Africa, that is.

With all this idle chit-chat about the Final - will it be Italy, will it France, will it be mind-numbingly boring - we're in danger of losing sight of another all-important weekend duel. That's right, I'm here to preview the Clash of the Also-Rans, the third and fourth place play-off: Germany vs. Portugal.

COME ON PORTUGAL!

Oh, alright, I don't give a shit about the third/fourth place play-off. There doesn't seem to be much point of it, and I'm sure most of the players involved would rather be on a beach somewhere than suffer a 90-minute reminder that they lost in the semi-finals of the World Cup. There are, of course, notable exceptions to this:

Well, actually I can only really think of one. Miroslav Klose. Now, barring an Henry hat-trick in the final, Klose is already guaranteed at least a share in the fabled World Cup Golden Boot and thus an ascension to the exclusive World Cup pantheon alongside the likes of Eusebio, Lineker, and Salenko (pictured receiving the award at USA '94).

However, you've got to think that Klose's mind is three steps ahead of the game - he's not interested in any boots, golden or otherwise; he is after the fat man's crown.

Klose's World Cup tally stands on ten at the moment, five behind Ronaldo. Now, if Klose just tries really really hard against a Portugese defence without Carvalho and dreaming of, well, Portugal, then surely he can bag at least another one or two... which would leave him heading to South Africa (qualification pending) in a Ronaldo-circa-a-month-ago position, although presumably in better shape. Once there, all he'd need is one or two easy teams in the group - and let's not forget that he plays for Germany, so the odds of one or two easy teams in the group are roughly 1 in 1 - and a few more tap-ins (or a Salenko-like five-goal haul prior to first round elimination) and he'll be regarded as a World Cup great.

See? I come on here desperate to prolong what has been a pretty shoddy World Cup experience, completely aimlessly... this is what happens when you begin a post without really knowing what you're going to write about. You end up knocking off two paragraphs on Miroslav fucking Klose. I feel unclean and must take a long shower forthwith.

Well, not just yet. First I want to experience some pain.

I met up with a mate yesterday who I hadn't seen since before the tournament began, and we talked about it for the whole afternoon over a few pints. It was the first time I'd been able to properly discuss England, rather than just turning away and saying "I don't want to talk about it" (incidentally, some people have thought I've been joking, before laughing and carrying on regardless. These people are scum; I've deleted their numbers from my phonebook and their faces from my memory) and it was pretty painful. We dwelled on the most agonising moment we could recollect, perhaps trying for some kind of mutual therapy. Not Rooney's sending-off (although we spent more than a few sentences on that, too) but the moment where Petit sent Portugal's third penalty wide, and England were briefly ahead in the shoot-out..... all prior notions of certain failure were suspended for the briefest of brief moment of elation and hope - then up stepped Stevie.... Then we moved onto the subject of Carragher: if he'd only been told to wait for the whistle (or used his initiative), his top-corner penalty would have stood and we'd have been in with a shout. oh god, oh god.

Why? WHY?

It feels like I've turned on the gas ring and my match has gone out.

Time for that shower.

Only a few additions to that Rob. You might not like the first bit, but you must agree that a triple lookalike is too good an opportunity to pass up:

Like it a lot.

A few more for the World Cup Pirate's XI:

Barthez in goal.
Peter Crouch up front (pictured)

Ok, so Portugal didn't do themselves any favours last night by acting like a bunch of bell-ends for the duration. In their defence I would argue that they took an unfair amount of the criticism following the highly entertaining Holland debacle. But.... ok, I'm glad France are through.

However: I have succumbed to the Italian's limited charms. They played better than I have ever seen an Italian team play the other night - it was, I'd confidently posit, better in terms of both attractiveness and effectiveness than anything France have come up with in the entire tournament. I like the fact that they are through to the final despite all the shenanigans going on back at home, and it is a testament to their quality as a team that I am supporting them despite vehemently disliking around half of their starting eleven. Plus I don't want France to have won more World Cups than England.

Finally, I'd like to point out that my Fantasy Fussball team is now 47th overall. Not bad, not bad - maybe I should dust off the old Champ 01/02 and waste a few more months of my life....

After a game that teetered nervously on the line between tedious and gripping, the Steel Wheels tour heads up to the Olympiastadion for one last push at the title. Tedious because of the identical formations both teams played. Two holding midfield players, two tricky wingers getting their backsides white (he's not one to be outdone our Lawro), one attacking midfielder and a forward, whose job it is to dive. Gripping because of the presence of Zidane. Lizarazu once said that playing with the Gitanes loving playmaker was easy because, "When we don't know what to do we give it to him and he works it out." It seems that French football hasn't moved on much since the days of the buccaneering basque. Still as formations go I quite like the "Get the ball to Zizou" one. It's about the players you see...

Once Henry decided that failing over was much more productive than actually trying to score, there was only going to be one winner. It seems that our favourite Frenchman has decided that diving like a woman is in fact a honourable way to go about winning football matches. I know that Carvalho (pictured below) touched him, but I'd like my strikers to score not to look for fouls, Henry wanted a penalty. Even with a golden opportunity to score you could tell he was thinking, If I fall over here it's a penalty... which means I'll get the ball to Zidane... down I go...

Following the penalty France sat back and waited for the crimson tide. It never really came, possibly because the French had more than one man to stop it, and it wasn't Denzel. Pauleta wasn't diving enough for Scolari so he was sacrificed to enable a more experienced and accomplished play actor like Ronaldo to push in to the striker's role. Both him and Postiga (was it him? Not sure may have been Nuno Gomes) had the modern forwards role down to a key. Their falling over was exemplary, technique took a back seat. France saw out the game, even allowing for Saha's shot at worst cameo ever, proving that experience and defences win world cups. Italy be warned, these boys can play a bit and crucially know how to win.

Of course part of the reason I was so bitter throughout the match was because this was OUR semi-final and these teams had gate crashed the party. Halftime was entertaining if only to see just how much the BBC hates Sven. Presumably they'd rather have Big Scolari, for the life of me I can't see why. His Portugal team dived all game then complained about the referee at the end. If Fifa weren't editing the footage of their beautiful game (which they are by the way, any dives don't get repeated by the host broadcaster) we would have seen Scolari ranting and raving at the referee after the game. It's all right being passionate but the last thing we need as an England manager is a bad loser, hell we always end up losing, so we need someone who can take it on the chin.

All those games and we get the final the Dassler brothers would have wanted. Battling it out to be the pride of Herzogenaurach (quite a title I'm sure you'll agree) for Adolf will be les bleus, Rudolf's representatives will be the Azzuri. In a game for hearts and heads I hope that Zidane comes out on top. The guy is universally loved, if you can find anyone that doesn't like the fella you've done well. When's that film of his out?

I have nothing much to add to Mikeyboy’s breakdown of last night. But in a week where our captain walked the plank, I just think that Fabio Cannavaro (pictured below, in a couple of years after he has become a pundit and maybe piled on the pounds a bit) should at least get a little mention. The notion that Frank Lumpolard is the second best player in the world was nipped elegantly in the bud with every interception or tackle the little guy made. Then just at the end when he should have been hanging back confidently sitting on the lead, he stormed out of defence and laid the ball off to Gilardino who subsequently found Del Piero for the finishing touch. I've read that he won't leave the sinking bianconeri ship but if I was Mr Ferguson (which I'm thankfully not) I'd be on the blower quicker than you can say "Rio's mind may be elsewhere."

Another paragraph dedicated to the brilliance of Pirlo and Gattuso (pictured mistaking Lippi for Tommy Burns below).

Oh and Camoranesi looks more like the guy pictured below these days. I do like the idea of a "Pirates of the Caribbean tie-in eleven" though mikeyboy. So far I have La Volpe as manager and Sorin as captain.

I'm not sure why mikeyboy is supporting the most cynical team in the tournament. I'll redress the balence with an Allez les Bleus and a plea to the footballing gods not to end Zidane's career tonight.

Bloody hell, what happened? Italy, er, looked really good last night - and not just in the solid-at-the-back way they normally look good, but in a proper create-lots-of-chances way. Crazy. Turn your back on the World Cup for a few days of mourning and the footballing world is turned upside down.

And Totti had a great game.... predictable, really, after my embittered "overrated" comment earlier yesterday. But he still played well - a few of his through-balls were lovely, especially given how deep the German defence were sitting. Had to be precise and a lot of the time they were. That said, he is still a bit full of all this fancy-dannery - passes the ball with the outside of the foot a lot, or curling on the instep. Never just passes it. Which, on a day like yesterday, works a treat. Not the player of the tournament, mind.

Yes, a properly great game - the first one since Argentina beat Mexico, by my reckoning. (Was England vs. Portugal great for neutrals? I don't know. And I don't want to know.) Both teams went for it, Italy with far more success. In fact, their success is all the more remarkable given the fact that they started the match with Perrotta and Camoranesi (pictured) - two players who not only do I not particularly like, but I consider to be substandard international footballers.

As far as I can tell, Perrotta's job is to run forward and support the lone striker a lot, without ever looking like he's going to either create or finish a chance. Camoranesi, meanwhile, "gets his studs white" out on the touchline and aggravates the opposition with his sarcastic clapping, persistent play-acting, and a far too infrequently perfect first-touch. But with both of these players on the pitch, Italy still shat on Germany from a great height.

Pirlo and Gattuso: brilliant, brilliant players whom I admire very much. They deserve their own paragraph.

You could see the fear in the Italian players' game from the get-go - they knew that playing for a 0-0 would merely result in yet more penalty heartache as das Germans would obviously bang in 5 out of 5, 6 out of 6, whatever was necessary. As a result, last night's added 30 minutes was probably the best period of extra time since Ronnie Rosenthal scored that hat-trick - culminating in two beautiful goals. Grosso's is obviously crying out to be described as David Platt-esque, not only for it's last-minute-of-extra-time status but also because it involved pivoting on one leg and meeting the ball perfectly to send it into the far corner. And then Del Piero scored after Gilardino performed a back-heel that would have surely sent Toni tumbling had he tried a similar trick. Great finish to a great match.

With regards to the play-acting/nasty side of football: as Clive Tyldesley pointed out over and over and over again, last night's match was played in far greater spirits than most this World Cup, bla bla bla. The referee helped - it was the best refereed match I've seen. Why was this? Because he didn't enforce any of stupid FIFA's stupid pernickety rules. I saw shirt-tugging, I saw players not giving the ball back... but I didn't see any subsequent pointless bookings. The game flowed, the players respected each other, and - yes! - it was even describable as an advertisement for the sport. Sepp Blatter, take note.

So the hosts go crashing out in dramatic circumstances - I can't say I'm too sorry to see them go, as once in the final they'd have surely won the bloody thing and, well, no no no no way would I have wanted that. Instead we've got the Italians, all playing out of their skins, and half whom are probably playing so well because they are acutely aware of the need to abandon one of several rapidly sinking ships once they head back to their respective clubs - Buffon to Arsenal? Del Piero to Bolton? Gilardino to Man United? All completely made-up (except for Buffon, which Tyldesley mentioned yesterday. The wanker.) If they keep that attitude up in the final then, with their defence as good as it is, I can't see them losing.

So all that remains to be said is - COME ON PORTUGAL! (Which you may think is sarcasm, but is genuinely not.)

Great idea, Rob, to raid post-penalties emails for blog content - saves us having to write through the pain. And there is so much pain. Here is a bit from my brother:

Yeah, the footy. I tried to objectify, but it put a bit of a downer on, bizarely, a barbq I had organised for that day. England had just lost on penalties, once more, and I turned to see a dozen friends and relatives engaged in various parallel reactions. All a bit of a blur, really. Why organise a barbie on penalty shootout day? Even Aaron was there! Aaron. Sorry man. He had a lonely job tending the sausages. Then George started trying to feed me cheesecake - in extra time! It was a seriously weird afternoon. By the end there was a hollow feeling in my stomach and a lot of meat in the fridge.

Of course, we all know that we will win Euro 2008. Easy. Lennon on the right, Hargreaves in his rightful place as the Anglo-Canadian Makelele, Rooney fit and, ah, WITHIN FIFTY YARDS OF HIS TEAM-MATES. AND YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THEY DIDN'T KNOW WHO YOU WERE, SVEN?

Perhaps what I mean by this is: anyone could have done a better job of managing this team than Sven, nice man though he is. Anyone. Another stat that needs quoting from the Guardian is this: our best player spent 47 seconds on the ball, only received the bloody thing 19 times, and made nine passes. I weep for the little feller. But he will be back.

I have a confession to make - I was realistic, I knew the outcome, I knew all through the tortuous post-Rooney period, the near misses on the break, that time it looked as though Crouch was going to control it, round some tosser Portuguese and bloody win the thing but he trod on the ball, when Lennon went down tackled in the area and we vainly appealed for a penalty we knew wasn't a penalty and which lampard would probably have missed anyway... I KNEW we were going to lose on penalties.

But... you know that moment in Ghostbusters, when they have to utterly blank their minds or whatever they think of will be sent by Zool to destroy New York? I tried to stop it, all I could see was defeat, but then Portugal missed that second penalty. And Gerrard stepped up, my own stay-puft marshmallow man, and I suddenly realised some small part of me was screaming "This is it! We're going to win it! Oh my god! And then, you know, we might in the next game! This is incredible! THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE!" What this part of my brain was denying was Stevie G's body language, which, like the rest, spoke merely of hope, of defeatist hope, rather than positive expectation. In fact, and I've only just realised this: our penalty-takers looked exactly like us! Like the spectators. Stevie G was barely able to watch himself miss his own penalty!

I could go on, but it is bed-time soon. And maybe this is for another time. For a cold beer this summer, for anyone who wants to dissect this not insignificant event further. For I have theories. Oh, I have theories. These guys shouldn't have even have been the ones taking the pens, should they? I mean, it's freaking obvious! Sven! Can you hear me?

Oh, I've jus remembered as well how sweet Ben was. He kept saying we would score and fulfil the prophecy. Whatever the prophecy was. The footballing sword of Damocles hung over us for over an hour - and we knew it was going to drop. Why? Why? Why do it? I know why. For that Ghostbusters moment. Gazza, six yards out, sliding in. Sol, rising above them. Rooney against France, Switzerland and Croatia. Sol again. There is always that moment of quite exquisite, gut-churning ecstasy when you think that this... thing, whatever it is, is going to come true. But the thing is - is it actually better to have that and have it snatched away? Deep down, maybe it is. I mean, what would we actually do if we ever won anything? What would we do? We would cry like fools, we would embrace strangers in the street. Yeah, I am talking shite, of course I'd like to bloody win the thing. But hope is a beautiful thing; maybe just as beautiful.

--

After the initial blow of England going out come the inevitable e-mails of “condolence” from friends around the world (well europe). More of a chance to mock than actual empathy but still, glad to know they’re thinking of me.

Andrea, Italy

The less said about your sorry side the better but forget about that lets concentrate on some real winners, Italy.

Oh, sweet! 3-0 against Ukraine, and a team that is a firecracker. Everyone played wonderfully, Toni found the goal again, and no-one’s sent off for the semi-finals, so we can put on our best team. The defense is incredible, definitely the best in the world, whichever way you put we’ve got the best men in the world for every position, goalkeeper included.
A mention aside goes for Francesco Totti, who’s back in proper form and absolutely dazzling with his passes. He played fabulously, two crucial polished assists and something beautiful produced every time he touched the ball, though he still has room for improvement (hail, hail). I think it’s fair to say that he’s won the duel with Riquelme for the best trequartista in the world and now officially holds that title, and with Messi not having played and Ronaldinho asleep, I think he’s putting forth a serious candidature for best man of the world cup.

Christian, Germany

First of all Rob, I’m sorry to see that England won’t have the great honour of losing to Germany in the final in our beautiful capital.

Don’t be sad now you all can realise that playing well every now and again (1 game in 5?) isn’t good enough at major tournaments.

I’m surprised about our own team, but I shouldn’t have doubted Jürgen. We WILL now win the cup and become WORLD CHAMPIONS on 9.7.2006 (a day that will go down in History)

Erwan, France

Oh dear Rob, maybe with your new glasses you will finally see that all English players are over paid and just believe what the press say about them. (Unlike our own greats of course ;-))

We will now stroll to the title and Zizou shall claim his rightful place at the top of world football.

It’s a message from Old Europe this world cup isn’t it?

Thank god I don’t have any Portuguese friends. They are all so enthusiastic. Why do I feel empty when they are undoubtedly skipping around planning for next Sunday. The only consolation is that they can’t all send me victorious emails.

As for Erwan quoting De Villepin, that’s a bit rich.

I don't have much to say, I just feel that I should post something.

Not sure what though.

It could be worse - we could have gone out like Argentina, by trying to sit on a 1-0 lead and sacrificing creativity for, well, Cambiasso. Pekerman turned briefly into Eriksson, and they paid the price. Which is a damn shame, as it means Germany are going to win the World Cup.

Nope, I can't concentrate. I considered staying in bed all day but it's too damn hot to lie-in. I made it til 1-ish but was covered in sweat by then.

It's a hollow feeling, isn't it? A horrible, hollow feeling, hard to describe. It's not exactly frustration, although it's in the same ballpark.... it's the bastard emotional offspring off some kind of sordid menage a trois enjoyed by frustration, anger and self-pity.

All this time blogging, and I've spent previews and match reports trying to find out exactly what it feels to be an England football fan.

Today at last I feel it all over my body.

It's utter shit.