So, for those who don't know what all this malarkey kicking off in Brazil today is all about, here's the basics:
Association football is a sport which is played between two teams of eleven players - or, if Portugal are one of them, two teams of nine ... or ... eight ... - using a spherical ball. Because, using a square one would be bloody ridiculous. It is widely considered to be the most popular participation and spectator sport in the world. Except in the USA where they don't even use its proper name and think it's something which girls play. The game takes place on a pitch of rectangular grass or artificial turf (you shouldn't, really, smoke the former, it's illegal - except in Holland, obviously. But, definitely don't try smoking the latter, you'll totally regret it). The object is to score 'a goal' by getting the ball into the opposing team's net and then stopping the opposition from doing the same thing to you. Fairly, of course. Or, if you're Italian, any damn way you can short of murder. In general play, the goalkeepers are the only players allowed to use their hands to touch the ball although at least one former Argentine international tended to ignore that rule whenever he felt like it. The rest of the team normally use their feet to kick the ball. Or, indeed, each other.
It's a game of two halves, Brian, and at the end of ninety minutes the team which scores the most goals will be Over The Moon, like, and the other lot will be As Sick As A Parrot. Or, to put it another way, it's a game of two halves, and extra time, and then the Germans win on penalties. The game is controlled - or, more often, not controlled - by an officious, whistle-happy berk with a Mussolini complex aided by two visually-impaired prats with flags and some bloke called 'The Fourth Official'. Nobody seems to have a frigging clue what he does to justify his existence. Including, seemingly, The Fourth Official himself. The game was invented by the English but, whisper it, we're not really very good at it these days. The Brazilians, however, are. Usually. Except when they aren't. The Dutch and the Spanish are sometimes quite good too but, more often than not, they end up fighting among themselves after a couple of matches. Except that, in recently years, the Spanish have stopped doing that and, as a consequence, started actually winning things. Makes you think, doesn't it? The game has many rules, most of which are reasonably straight forward. Except for offside (don't ask, trust me, it's not worth it, we'll be here all day). Every four years the best thirty two nations in the world come together in a Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity which is hosted by the country that pays the biggest bribes. Allegedly. Oh yes, very hot water. Scotland usually don't take part. Because, as noted, it's a tournament for the world's thirty two best national sides. Thirty one of them inevitably go home muttering darkly about bias, conspiracies, bad luck, dodgy red cards and 'that was never over the line.' Or, sometimes, 'that was definitely over the line.' There can be only one champion. A bit like the movie Highlander, if you will, only with less beheadings. Although, if you're ever seen Uruguay play ...
And so the Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity (or, The World Cup for short) is back, dear blog reader. And, as the comedian John Oliver noted earlier this week, it is unique in being just about the only event in the world that can, simultaneously, make the billions watching it feel deliriously happy and incredibly conflicted at the same time. Only a game as glorious, as spiritually uplifting, and only an organisation as arrogant, sinister, ethically corrupt and morally bankrupt as FIFA is able to produce such an uncomfortable dichotomy. It'd almost be impressive if it wasn't so depressing
Brazil, dear blog reader. The home of football. They didn't invent it, it's true (we've got that on our charge sheet) but they took the game and did something with it that nobody expected. They made it beautiful. Those World Champion teams of 1958, 1962 and 1970 (and, the one that didn't win The World Cup but should have in 1982) taught us how to be outrageous, dazzling and sexy. Everything that ITV's football coverage isn't, in other words. The country that put the joy into football and the broadcaster that manages to suck all of the joy out of every match they cover. Quite a juxtaposition. As, outside the stadium, riot police attacked protesters with tear gas and batons inside, grumpy greed bucket, horrorshow (and drag) Adrian Chiles simpered and spent his time licking Fabio Cannavaro's crack. God it was horrifying, dear blog reader. How can a major broadcaster get it so wrong, so often? And, their 'Bra-silllll' theme tune is, already, the most irritating thing in the whole world (bar none) and we've got another month of it to come. Fan-ruddy-tastic. According to an ITV spokesperson, Chiles gives their coverage, 'the man-in-the-street angle that the BBC lacks.' 
Which presumably explains why, whenever the Beeb and ITV both cover a match simultaneously, nine-out-of-ten punters prefer to watch Gary Lineker and co - you know, professionals - rather than a breakfast TV flop. Cannavaro had a look on his face that seemed to scream: 'I was told this was an English language channel.' The odious Chiles paused only from cumming in his West Brom undies over his new bestest friend, Fabio, to ask a really pissed-off looking Patrick Viera: 'You're in danger of being left out, Patrick. What are your World Cup memories?' Sadly, Viera didn't reply: 'Well, I won it.' Equally tragically, Lee Dixon did chose that moment to violently kick the bell-end Chiles up a-height like he did to David Ginola in the League Cup in 1995. Then, amazingly, it actually got worse. We had the sight of the really annoying Ian Wright, a man totally in love with the sound of his own voice, pestering some hapless German tourist of Copa Cabana Beach. I'm not making this up, dear blog reader. That was followed by the Opening Ceremony which this blogger chose to avoid as he popped out for a takeaway. Apparently, I didn't miss much. It was the usual stuff - dancers, men on stilts - although, tragically, we didn't have another appearance of Dunga The Dung Beetle from the Opening Ceremony four years ago. Jennifer Lopez was Dunga's stand in, seemingly after a will-she-won't-she story that fascinated all of three people. We got the Brazil line-up: Júlio César, Alves, Thiago Silva, David Luiz, Marcelo, Luis Gustavo, Paulinho, Oscar, Hulk, Neymar and Fred. Which looked a bit tasty although everybody knows that Luiz has never been as good since she married Jamie Redknapp.
The interesting thing was that in all of ITV's eighty seven hours of build up (that's an exaggeration, just in case you were wondering), barely a second was spent on discussing the other team playing in the opener. Of course, most football fans know that Croatia are a fine side; experienced, strong, good in defence, creative in midfield and with the ability to break with real pace.
But, for all of the attention they got up to and including the moment when they started belting out their national anthem ('our beautiful homeland, our dear heroic land') you might have been forgiven for thinking they were just some Sunday League team who'd been sent out to provide The Gladiators with someone to stab. The fact that, prompted by the excellent Luka Modric in midfield, they were the better side in the opening minutes - all intricate passing and movement - didn't seem to matter either. Then, Ivica Olic found space (for about the third time) on the left-wing and his low cross evaded Nikica Jelavic but hit Marcelo on the toe and bobbled into the Brazil net. Oh dear, what a calamity. For the next twenty minutes, Brazil huffed and puffed, brought a couple of good saves out of Stipe Pletikosa and achieved very little except a yellow card for Neymar for elbowing Modric in the mush. Hard. Then, pretty much out of nothing, Neymar (who might have considered himself lucky to be on the pitch) scored the equaliser. Brazil then got their act together and, thereafter, it was a terrific game and even the ITV commentary couldn't, quite, spoil the party (Tyldesley's bizarre fascination with Modric's new haircut and ... well, everything that bloody Andy Townsend had to say, notwithstanding). A rather soft penalty (Lovren on Fred who went down very much in instalments) twenty minutes from time led to Brazil's (and Neymar's) second, which Pletikosa, frankly, should have saved. 
Another, seemingly, rather questionable decision from the Japanese referee was to penalise Olic for a foul on the Brazilian keeper which appeared to have preceded an equaliser. There's no doubt that Niko Kovač's men will feel jolly hard-done-by. As for Big Phil's Brazil, who were properly hanging on for most of the final few moments, a team under the weight of the expectations of an entire nation (well, at least all the ones that aren't protesting in the streets and getting tear-gassed) pinched a third, through Oscar, on the break in injury time and the samba party got itself started in earnest. The Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity (or, The World Cup for short) is off and running and, for one night, at least, The Revolution has been postponed. How many more games this particular referee will be awarded during the tournament is another matter entirely.
Postscript: Ten minutes before the end of the game, apparently, another angry demonstration of disgruntled and rather stroppy locals began outside the media centre in Rio and, according to the odious Chiles (who looked like he'd just shat in his own pants), some of those taking part began throwing rocks at the ITV studio. Frankly, if he'd been there, this blogger would, definitely, have joined in. 'We were all sitting up here and then suddenly sharp, clattering sounds started greeting our ears and that was them pelting the glass of our studio and other studios around here. We did try to explain to them none of this is our fault at ITV Sport,' whinged Chiles. Yes it is. You employed Andy Townsend in the first place.
UEFA president oily little shit Michel Platini will not support his FIFA counterpart the odious appeaser of corruption Sepp Blather ahead of next year's election. Blather who has been under pressure over the 2022 Qatar World Cup, recently indicated he was to seek re-election for a fifth term. 'I am no longer supporting him, it's finished,' said Platini, sounding uncannily like a teenager breaking up with his latest girlfriend. 'He knows it, I told him. I think FIFA needs a new breath of fresh air.' Oily little shit Platini is yet to publicly declare whether her fancies a crack at the FIFA presidency himself.
England will send a member of manager Roy Hodgson's backroom team to inspect the pitch for Saturday's World Cup opener against Italy, with the head groundsman responsible for the surface admitting: 'It is in bad shape.' Pictures have revealed dry, brown marks across the Arena Amazonia turf. 'Frankly, Manaus is in bad shape,' said Carlos Botella, head groundsman for the Royal Verd company which is responsible for the turf at Manaus. 'The maintenance has been complicated.' Botella added: 'There are no roads. All the machinery and materials had to be brought by ship. There was no fertiliser and no seeds. Now we have put fertiliser down. We will increase the fertilising process with biostimulants and seeds to try to get the most out of the grass.' The stadium, which holds thirty nine thousand people, was constructed last year. It is due to host four World Cup games, including the Group G fixture between the United States and Portugal on 22 June, although this weekend's fixture is by far the most high-profile. A FIFA 'source' allegedly said that the problems had been caused by 'excessive use of fertiliser' - not the first time that FIFA has found itself having problems with a surfeit of shit - but added that the issue was 'largely cosmetic' and there is 'no threat' to the Group D game. 'The pitch in Manaus has been undergoing treatment in preparation for the World Cup. Over the last three months, mitigation procedures have been put in place and there continues to be significant improvement,' said a FIFA spokesman. England striker Wayne Rooney is unconcerned, saying: 'It's the same for ourselves and Italy, so we'll both have to deal with that.' Jeez, a once in a generation mind, that kid.
Association football is a sport which is played between two teams of eleven players - or, if Portugal are one of them, two teams of nine ... or ... eight ... - using a spherical ball. Because, using a square one would be bloody ridiculous. It is widely considered to be the most popular participation and spectator sport in the world. Except in the USA where they don't even use its proper name and think it's something which girls play. The game takes place on a pitch of rectangular grass or artificial turf (you shouldn't, really, smoke the former, it's illegal - except in Holland, obviously. But, definitely don't try smoking the latter, you'll totally regret it). The object is to score 'a goal' by getting the ball into the opposing team's net and then stopping the opposition from doing the same thing to you. Fairly, of course. Or, if you're Italian, any damn way you can short of murder. In general play, the goalkeepers are the only players allowed to use their hands to touch the ball although at least one former Argentine international tended to ignore that rule whenever he felt like it. The rest of the team normally use their feet to kick the ball. Or, indeed, each other.
It's a game of two halves, Brian, and at the end of ninety minutes the team which scores the most goals will be Over The Moon, like, and the other lot will be As Sick As A Parrot. Or, to put it another way, it's a game of two halves, and extra time, and then the Germans win on penalties. The game is controlled - or, more often, not controlled - by an officious, whistle-happy berk with a Mussolini complex aided by two visually-impaired prats with flags and some bloke called 'The Fourth Official'. Nobody seems to have a frigging clue what he does to justify his existence. Including, seemingly, The Fourth Official himself. The game was invented by the English but, whisper it, we're not really very good at it these days. The Brazilians, however, are. Usually. Except when they aren't. The Dutch and the Spanish are sometimes quite good too but, more often than not, they end up fighting among themselves after a couple of matches. Except that, in recently years, the Spanish have stopped doing that and, as a consequence, started actually winning things. Makes you think, doesn't it? The game has many rules, most of which are reasonably straight forward. Except for offside (don't ask, trust me, it's not worth it, we'll be here all day). Every four years the best thirty two nations in the world come together in a Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity which is hosted by the country that pays the biggest bribes. Allegedly. Oh yes, very hot water. Scotland usually don't take part. Because, as noted, it's a tournament for the world's thirty two best national sides. Thirty one of them inevitably go home muttering darkly about bias, conspiracies, bad luck, dodgy red cards and 'that was never over the line.' Or, sometimes, 'that was definitely over the line.' There can be only one champion. A bit like the movie Highlander, if you will, only with less beheadings. Although, if you're ever seen Uruguay play ... And so the Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity (or, The World Cup for short) is back, dear blog reader. And, as the comedian John Oliver noted earlier this week, it is unique in being just about the only event in the world that can, simultaneously, make the billions watching it feel deliriously happy and incredibly conflicted at the same time. Only a game as glorious, as spiritually uplifting, and only an organisation as arrogant, sinister, ethically corrupt and morally bankrupt as FIFA is able to produce such an uncomfortable dichotomy. It'd almost be impressive if it wasn't so depressing
Which presumably explains why, whenever the Beeb and ITV both cover a match simultaneously, nine-out-of-ten punters prefer to watch Gary Lineker and co - you know, professionals - rather than a breakfast TV flop. Cannavaro had a look on his face that seemed to scream: 'I was told this was an English language channel.' The odious Chiles paused only from cumming in his West Brom undies over his new bestest friend, Fabio, to ask a really pissed-off looking Patrick Viera: 'You're in danger of being left out, Patrick. What are your World Cup memories?' Sadly, Viera didn't reply: 'Well, I won it.' Equally tragically, Lee Dixon did chose that moment to violently kick the bell-end Chiles up a-height like he did to David Ginola in the League Cup in 1995. Then, amazingly, it actually got worse. We had the sight of the really annoying Ian Wright, a man totally in love with the sound of his own voice, pestering some hapless German tourist of Copa Cabana Beach. I'm not making this up, dear blog reader. That was followed by the Opening Ceremony which this blogger chose to avoid as he popped out for a takeaway. Apparently, I didn't miss much. It was the usual stuff - dancers, men on stilts - although, tragically, we didn't have another appearance of Dunga The Dung Beetle from the Opening Ceremony four years ago. Jennifer Lopez was Dunga's stand in, seemingly after a will-she-won't-she story that fascinated all of three people. We got the Brazil line-up: Júlio César, Alves, Thiago Silva, David Luiz, Marcelo, Luis Gustavo, Paulinho, Oscar, Hulk, Neymar and Fred. Which looked a bit tasty although everybody knows that Luiz has never been as good since she married Jamie Redknapp.The interesting thing was that in all of ITV's eighty seven hours of build up (that's an exaggeration, just in case you were wondering), barely a second was spent on discussing the other team playing in the opener. Of course, most football fans know that Croatia are a fine side; experienced, strong, good in defence, creative in midfield and with the ability to break with real pace.
But, for all of the attention they got up to and including the moment when they started belting out their national anthem ('our beautiful homeland, our dear heroic land') you might have been forgiven for thinking they were just some Sunday League team who'd been sent out to provide The Gladiators with someone to stab. The fact that, prompted by the excellent Luka Modric in midfield, they were the better side in the opening minutes - all intricate passing and movement - didn't seem to matter either. Then, Ivica Olic found space (for about the third time) on the left-wing and his low cross evaded Nikica Jelavic but hit Marcelo on the toe and bobbled into the Brazil net. Oh dear, what a calamity. For the next twenty minutes, Brazil huffed and puffed, brought a couple of good saves out of Stipe Pletikosa and achieved very little except a yellow card for Neymar for elbowing Modric in the mush. Hard. Then, pretty much out of nothing, Neymar (who might have considered himself lucky to be on the pitch) scored the equaliser. Brazil then got their act together and, thereafter, it was a terrific game and even the ITV commentary couldn't, quite, spoil the party (Tyldesley's bizarre fascination with Modric's new haircut and ... well, everything that bloody Andy Townsend had to say, notwithstanding). A rather soft penalty (Lovren on Fred who went down very much in instalments) twenty minutes from time led to Brazil's (and Neymar's) second, which Pletikosa, frankly, should have saved. 
Another, seemingly, rather questionable decision from the Japanese referee was to penalise Olic for a foul on the Brazilian keeper which appeared to have preceded an equaliser. There's no doubt that Niko Kovač's men will feel jolly hard-done-by. As for Big Phil's Brazil, who were properly hanging on for most of the final few moments, a team under the weight of the expectations of an entire nation (well, at least all the ones that aren't protesting in the streets and getting tear-gassed) pinched a third, through Oscar, on the break in injury time and the samba party got itself started in earnest. The Spectacularly Expensive Corporate Brown-Tongued Hate-Fest Sponsored By Various Multi-National Creators Of Liver Disease And Child Obesity (or, The World Cup for short) is off and running and, for one night, at least, The Revolution has been postponed. How many more games this particular referee will be awarded during the tournament is another matter entirely.Postscript: Ten minutes before the end of the game, apparently, another angry demonstration of disgruntled and rather stroppy locals began outside the media centre in Rio and, according to the odious Chiles (who looked like he'd just shat in his own pants), some of those taking part began throwing rocks at the ITV studio. Frankly, if he'd been there, this blogger would, definitely, have joined in. 'We were all sitting up here and then suddenly sharp, clattering sounds started greeting our ears and that was them pelting the glass of our studio and other studios around here. We did try to explain to them none of this is our fault at ITV Sport,' whinged Chiles. Yes it is. You employed Andy Townsend in the first place.
