Yer Keith Telly Topping wishes to report on the delivery of the new PC. Part one (probably of eighty four). So, it arrived nice and early this morning - quarter to eight, actually - and most of the installation has gone relatively smoothly. Well, ish. I've got the majority of stuff downloaded onto it - got the music sorted, got most (although not all) of the video files sorted. All in all that was quite good.
But, there's a problem - you just knew there would be, didn't you? I certainly did! I spent forty five fruitless minutes trying to connect to the Internet followed by forty five equally fruitless minutes on the phone to Demon helpdesk (which was about helpful as mud) before discovering that Windows 7, which the new PC runs is incompatible with the modem I have! So, I'm back on the old - half-dead - machine until they can send me a new, compatible one! You couldn't make this up, could you?
So, thus, I had a total horroshow of a morning - and first half of the afternoon - so it was good to relax, kick back, watch a bit of cricket up till three o'clock and then watch the French get humiliated. I did, briefly, consider going with Uruguay v Mexico on ITV4 instead. But, then I rejected that daft idea. And, so we reach the final first round games. This is where it all starts to get a bit 'knock out.'
South Africa v The Piss Artists Formerly Known As France
Mexico v U-Are-Gay
ITV's panel featured two pinkish shirts today (Chiles and Townsend, though the latter's checky-effort was closer to mauve, really). 'Wherever you look in the French camp there's confusion,' noted Adrian informing viewers that Evra had been dropped and that Henry would remain on the bench having, apparently, been described by someone in the French Federation as 'one of the ringleaders,' of the general stroppiness that's been going on over there. What a surprise. Then, we got a shot of South African team singing their way into the stadium and, you just had a feeling this could be something really special. And, that's how it started.
'A hymn of mutiny and rebellion sung by those with revolution in their hearts,' was how Jon Champion described 'La Marseilles.' Apt. South Africa were easily the better side and, after twenty minutes, Siphiwe Tshabalala put over a corner from the left and Hugo Lloris - allegedly one of the best goalkeepers in Europe - couldn't decide whether to come or go, half-came, and completely missed the ball. Bongani Khumalo headed it in at the far post. Actually, it probably hit his shoulder but, who cares? And then it just got worse and worse for the French. Which was funny. Gourcuff elbowed MacBeth Sibaya in the boat-race from a corner. The Colombian referee Oscar Ruiz immediately showed a red card. There was some initial confusion as it appeared he'd actually sent Djibril Cisse off. It's not as if he and and Gourcuff even look, particularly, alike. A few minutes later and a cross from the South African left hit Abou Diaby and when the second cross came in it, fell to Katlego Mphela who, from three yards, tapped it into an empty net. The stadium, inevitably, went berserk. At half-time, Chiles cracked a really tasteless comment about Marcel Desailly having to be talked out of suicide. I hope that one gets plenty of complaints to Ofcom.
Meanwhile, over in the other game on ITV4, from the two little bits I saw of it, that was a bit of cracker too. Mexico hitting the bar before Luis Suarez scored for the U-Are-Gays with a fine header. The plot thickened. Ten minutes into the second half, like a knackered old carthorse turning up at the Grand National, Monsieur Henry entered the scene, still with that bastard annoying disapproving look on his face like someone was spreading manure in his general vicinity. When, after a few minutes, he accidentally handled the ball whilst trying to control a cross, Champion and Beglin got at least a minute out of the resulting 'irony.'
Oh, how we laughed. Hollowly. Shortly afterwards, Malouda got on the end of Ribery's cross to finally silence the vuvzelas. For a moment. I took the opportunity to flick over and check out the other match. It was all Mexico but with the Uruguayans breaking intelligently and with pace. Looked a really good game, actually. But, I was soon with Les Flops. And so, the sands of time slipped away for both the Sacre Bleus and Bafana Bafana. One team, in patches, lit up the tournament and made us believe, however briefly, in the possibility of miracles. The others were an over-paid, under-performing, stroppy, arrogant, annoying, amusing disgrace. No one, not a single lover of the beautiful game, will miss them for a second. Au revoir. Je suis très désolé, j'ai la diarrhée.
Just as a postscript, Raymond Domenech appeared to refuse to shake Carlos Alberto Parreira's hand at the end. A sad and frankly pathetic way for one of the worst World Cup campaigns of all time to end and a gesture which means that Domench leaves the job of French coach in much the same way as he conducted it, without much dignity or class. Sad. In every sense of the word. It's just ... small. And that sums Domenech up. A tiny odious fraction of man. A non-entity. It's no wonder his players, and the French public, hate him.
Greasy Argentines v Greasy Greeks
South Corrie v Nigerian Enders
Happy Harry The Hamster joined the BBC team tonight. Gosh, that's just what we need, another gobshite - though definitely not corrupt, of course, oh no, very hot water - manager who never got within a hundred miles for actually playing international football, let alone in the World Cup, telling us all how it should be done. Be still my heart. Very still. When showed a bit of footage of the 1982 Brazilians, Happy Harry's in depth analysis was 'unbelievable that, Gary, unbelievable.' And my licence fee is going on this? Bring back Christine Bleakley. At least she's pretty and can read a frigging autocue. Things didn't improve much once we reached the stadium with Mick McCarthy's pronunciation of Papaststhopoulos sounding more uncannily like 'that bastard Popoulos' each successive time he said it.
As excepted, of course, the Argentine's strutted about like they owned the place, passing the ball to death in moves so complex they appeared in danger of disappearing in a puff of prestidigitation. It took them twelve minutes before they actually had a shot on goal, however. I checked out the other game on BBC3. Not much to say, really. Everybody looked a bit disinterested. And Kanu was playing. 'nuff said. Back to the Argentine.
(Course, typically, literally about thirty seconds after I switched back, Uche scored for the Nigerians and it then turned into one of the best games of the tournament so far.) So the first half continued as a bit of a disappointment, to be honest. One team happy, for the most part, not to play and the other team happy, for the most part, to play with themselves. The Greek keeper made a couple of good save, the Greeks occasionally produced a few passes and big Samaras up front looked quite decent on the odd occasions when the ball got through to him. A highlight of the first-half was Papadopoulos going down heavily like a sack of wet shite claiming he'd been smacked in the mush, being taken off, and then coming back on with a comically huge swab of cotton wool in his gob. Made him look like he was in a constant state of projectile vomit. I turned back over to Beeb3 hear Simon Brotherton say 'Nigeria are, at times, threatening to play really very well indeed.' But then, Mark Bright opened his mouth and I sought the safety of BBC1 and McCarthy instead. And, again, missed a goal - South Korea's equaliser - by seconds. Mind you, i also missed Garth Crooks at half time so, you know, every cloud has a silver lining.
The second-half began ominously for Greece. Dear old Otto Rehhagel took off his playmaker and one borderline flair player, Karagounis, and brought of a full back. That sort of summed up Greece's attitude to this. Whilst the Greeks were showing a spectacular lack of ambition, over in Durban, the Koreans had taken the lead.
It was hard not to cheer. For all of Greece's hard word and spirit, their 8-1-1 formation was doing nothing for the cause of adventurous football. Meanwhile, Yakuku was providing the miss of the World Cup, from literally two feet and then, a few minutes later, an equaliser from the penalty spot. Do you ever get the feeling you've just picked the wrong game to watch? When Mick McCarthy, of all people, starts banging on about 'I hate to commentate on games like this,' you know something is just backward. I mean, he's managed enough of them in his time. 'I would be so disappointed if I'd come to the World Cup and not had a go. It must be a hollow feeling.' cough-1990-cough. Anyway.
And then, finally, finally, Demichelis scored. And, for once, pretty much everybody in the world was cheering an Argie goal. Well, not in Athens, obviously. But, definitely in Seoul and Lagos. The Argentines got a second whilst, in the other match, the score ended 2-2 and the Korries were through. The crowd, and Greece, went home. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Goals: 77
Red Cards: 11
But, there's a problem - you just knew there would be, didn't you? I certainly did! I spent forty five fruitless minutes trying to connect to the Internet followed by forty five equally fruitless minutes on the phone to Demon helpdesk (which was about helpful as mud) before discovering that Windows 7, which the new PC runs is incompatible with the modem I have! So, I'm back on the old - half-dead - machine until they can send me a new, compatible one! You couldn't make this up, could you?
So, thus, I had a total horroshow of a morning - and first half of the afternoon - so it was good to relax, kick back, watch a bit of cricket up till three o'clock and then watch the French get humiliated. I did, briefly, consider going with Uruguay v Mexico on ITV4 instead. But, then I rejected that daft idea. And, so we reach the final first round games. This is where it all starts to get a bit 'knock out.'
South Africa v The Piss Artists Formerly Known As France
Mexico v U-Are-Gay
ITV's panel featured two pinkish shirts today (Chiles and Townsend, though the latter's checky-effort was closer to mauve, really). 'Wherever you look in the French camp there's confusion,' noted Adrian informing viewers that Evra had been dropped and that Henry would remain on the bench having, apparently, been described by someone in the French Federation as 'one of the ringleaders,' of the general stroppiness that's been going on over there. What a surprise. Then, we got a shot of South African team singing their way into the stadium and, you just had a feeling this could be something really special. And, that's how it started.
'A hymn of mutiny and rebellion sung by those with revolution in their hearts,' was how Jon Champion described 'La Marseilles.' Apt. South Africa were easily the better side and, after twenty minutes, Siphiwe Tshabalala put over a corner from the left and Hugo Lloris - allegedly one of the best goalkeepers in Europe - couldn't decide whether to come or go, half-came, and completely missed the ball. Bongani Khumalo headed it in at the far post. Actually, it probably hit his shoulder but, who cares? And then it just got worse and worse for the French. Which was funny. Gourcuff elbowed MacBeth Sibaya in the boat-race from a corner. The Colombian referee Oscar Ruiz immediately showed a red card. There was some initial confusion as it appeared he'd actually sent Djibril Cisse off. It's not as if he and and Gourcuff even look, particularly, alike. A few minutes later and a cross from the South African left hit Abou Diaby and when the second cross came in it, fell to Katlego Mphela who, from three yards, tapped it into an empty net. The stadium, inevitably, went berserk. At half-time, Chiles cracked a really tasteless comment about Marcel Desailly having to be talked out of suicide. I hope that one gets plenty of complaints to Ofcom.Meanwhile, over in the other game on ITV4, from the two little bits I saw of it, that was a bit of cracker too. Mexico hitting the bar before Luis Suarez scored for the U-Are-Gays with a fine header. The plot thickened. Ten minutes into the second half, like a knackered old carthorse turning up at the Grand National, Monsieur Henry entered the scene, still with that bastard annoying disapproving look on his face like someone was spreading manure in his general vicinity. When, after a few minutes, he accidentally handled the ball whilst trying to control a cross, Champion and Beglin got at least a minute out of the resulting 'irony.'
Oh, how we laughed. Hollowly. Shortly afterwards, Malouda got on the end of Ribery's cross to finally silence the vuvzelas. For a moment. I took the opportunity to flick over and check out the other match. It was all Mexico but with the Uruguayans breaking intelligently and with pace. Looked a really good game, actually. But, I was soon with Les Flops. And so, the sands of time slipped away for both the Sacre Bleus and Bafana Bafana. One team, in patches, lit up the tournament and made us believe, however briefly, in the possibility of miracles. The others were an over-paid, under-performing, stroppy, arrogant, annoying, amusing disgrace. No one, not a single lover of the beautiful game, will miss them for a second. Au revoir. Je suis très désolé, j'ai la diarrhée.Just as a postscript, Raymond Domenech appeared to refuse to shake Carlos Alberto Parreira's hand at the end. A sad and frankly pathetic way for one of the worst World Cup campaigns of all time to end and a gesture which means that Domench leaves the job of French coach in much the same way as he conducted it, without much dignity or class. Sad. In every sense of the word. It's just ... small. And that sums Domenech up. A tiny odious fraction of man. A non-entity. It's no wonder his players, and the French public, hate him.
Greasy Argentines v Greasy Greeks
South Corrie v Nigerian Enders
Happy Harry The Hamster joined the BBC team tonight. Gosh, that's just what we need, another gobshite - though definitely not corrupt, of course, oh no, very hot water - manager who never got within a hundred miles for actually playing international football, let alone in the World Cup, telling us all how it should be done. Be still my heart. Very still. When showed a bit of footage of the 1982 Brazilians, Happy Harry's in depth analysis was 'unbelievable that, Gary, unbelievable.' And my licence fee is going on this? Bring back Christine Bleakley. At least she's pretty and can read a frigging autocue. Things didn't improve much once we reached the stadium with Mick McCarthy's pronunciation of Papaststhopoulos sounding more uncannily like 'that bastard Popoulos' each successive time he said it.
As excepted, of course, the Argentine's strutted about like they owned the place, passing the ball to death in moves so complex they appeared in danger of disappearing in a puff of prestidigitation. It took them twelve minutes before they actually had a shot on goal, however. I checked out the other game on BBC3. Not much to say, really. Everybody looked a bit disinterested. And Kanu was playing. 'nuff said. Back to the Argentine.
(Course, typically, literally about thirty seconds after I switched back, Uche scored for the Nigerians and it then turned into one of the best games of the tournament so far.) So the first half continued as a bit of a disappointment, to be honest. One team happy, for the most part, not to play and the other team happy, for the most part, to play with themselves. The Greek keeper made a couple of good save, the Greeks occasionally produced a few passes and big Samaras up front looked quite decent on the odd occasions when the ball got through to him. A highlight of the first-half was Papadopoulos going down heavily like a sack of wet shite claiming he'd been smacked in the mush, being taken off, and then coming back on with a comically huge swab of cotton wool in his gob. Made him look like he was in a constant state of projectile vomit. I turned back over to Beeb3 hear Simon Brotherton say 'Nigeria are, at times, threatening to play really very well indeed.' But then, Mark Bright opened his mouth and I sought the safety of BBC1 and McCarthy instead. And, again, missed a goal - South Korea's equaliser - by seconds. Mind you, i also missed Garth Crooks at half time so, you know, every cloud has a silver lining.The second-half began ominously for Greece. Dear old Otto Rehhagel took off his playmaker and one borderline flair player, Karagounis, and brought of a full back. That sort of summed up Greece's attitude to this. Whilst the Greeks were showing a spectacular lack of ambition, over in Durban, the Koreans had taken the lead.
It was hard not to cheer. For all of Greece's hard word and spirit, their 8-1-1 formation was doing nothing for the cause of adventurous football. Meanwhile, Yakuku was providing the miss of the World Cup, from literally two feet and then, a few minutes later, an equaliser from the penalty spot. Do you ever get the feeling you've just picked the wrong game to watch? When Mick McCarthy, of all people, starts banging on about 'I hate to commentate on games like this,' you know something is just backward. I mean, he's managed enough of them in his time. 'I would be so disappointed if I'd come to the World Cup and not had a go. It must be a hollow feeling.' cough-1990-cough. Anyway.And then, finally, finally, Demichelis scored. And, for once, pretty much everybody in the world was cheering an Argie goal. Well, not in Athens, obviously. But, definitely in Seoul and Lagos. The Argentines got a second whilst, in the other match, the score ended 2-2 and the Korries were through. The crowd, and Greece, went home. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Goals: 77
Red Cards: 11
