And currently I sit here as a festering, suppurated boil, having consumed 90 long minutes of pus at the feet of England’s national football team in the wee hours of the morning. Now I am half english, so I’m entitled to pull out my “whinging pom” hat and have a bit of a rant at the way England robbed me of 90 minutes of vitality, latent virility and sleep with their inability to provide any sort of entertainment on the football pitch. They scraped by to be sure, with two late goals (which I did stay up to see) but looked lacklustre and ordinary when faced with pressure on the ball and close man-to-man marking. Credit to Trinidad and Tobago (and Dwight Yorke, who copped a screamer directly in the groinal region) for making England look as bad as they did.

I’ve written to God requesting a full refund of the 90 minutes of my life (plus stoppage time)* as the hand of god always seems to be playing a part in the results of football matches. Now I just have to determine whether I will grace the English side with my audience come their third match at 5am on 20th July. For some reason, methinks sleep shall win the day.

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*I have no doubt that my refund will be delivered; however, I do having a feeling that the fine print will dictate that the minutes refunded will not be transferable and will not be redeemable for sleep.