End Of The Month

After an aborted attempt 2 years ago R and I are at last off to China. Bags are packed, butterflies housed in the stomach, passports and tickets checked until they have smooth wear marks on them.

Around us the Middle East screams as the cockpit of Armageddon writhes and the Beast slouches towards it, George W vetoes a democratically approved bill on stem cell research, and Tony looks more adrift from the world than ever.

Don't care.

England, my England

I can't pretend that I am a true football fan but I will usually make the effort to watch England play.

When I was a kid I used to support Tottenham Hotspur, my uncle's local team. In those days they were a top team - Greaves was playing when he wasn't injured, and in my first year of senior school they met and beat Chelsea in the Cup Final. Chelsea was by best friend's team, and he was so choked he was too ill to come to school the next day.

Gradually though, football teams became corporate logos with international squads. It was like watching companies play - not local teams. I would watch the occasional match and be able to enjoy the quality of the football, but the fire to follow anyone had disappeared.

England was different. I remember watching the 1966 World Cup, and for quite a while I bought into the idea that because we had won the thing once (just), we were somehow likely to win it any time if we tried.

Watching England is usually painful. Well always, in fact. And frustrating. Watching some of the highest paid footballers in the world passing the ball and shooting wildly like schoolboys. The slow, painful build in midfield, losing the ball casually, and the frantic dash back to defend.

And yet it is strangely addictive - the over-the-top enthusiasm, the bizarre commentaries ("Only 10 minutes to go - it's all over") , the twitching ache in my foot at the end. We might win against Portugal tonight - especially if we can make sure the crossbar plays for us like it has recently, and that will extend the glorious torture, or we might lose, and the Recriminations will begin, and the massed ranks of armchair pundits will advance on Sven.

Guess I'll go for the glorious torture.

Come on England.