Top-flight football is such an ugly spectacle, I can’t stand the sight of it. With all the hacking, diving, stamping, tripping, wrestling, nudging, shirt pulling, injury faking and name calling that goes on, it has no place on TV before the watershed.
The best thing about the World Cup was that it emptied the local golf course on warm summer evenings. My dogs and I took full advantage to enjoy some hacking and name calling of our own.
After the disappointment of England’s defeat, of course I joined the sceptics in deploring the absurdity of forcing two deflated teams to go through the motions for the pointless 3rd place match – just to sell a few more rip-off tickets. Who cares?
Returning from golf on Saturday, I was surprised to learn that Harry’s boys were doing well, and went to bed at 4-1 to rehearse all the missed putts and balls in the water. Morning brought news of a 10-goal thriller, and the highlights on the BBC website were a revelation. What a beautiful game! Brilliant goals, magical footwork unstamped, long weaving runs with no tripping-up, and all smiles afterwards. I watched the whole thing on playback.