T&T Had The Nicest Shirts

One week in to the World Cup and incredibly England have already qualified for the second round. We normally leave it to the third match creating angst and headaches all-round but we decided to break with tradition. In another change to the normal schedule, England actually managed to score in the second half of a football match, something that hasn't happened for a loooooong time. In this case it was in the 80th minute versus Trinidad and Tobago (or T&T as the locals say it) as Peter Crouch finally got the better of his marker and headed in from 8 yards. Phew. What a relief. Until that point it was a 0-0 bore-draw and it was looking like a classic case of an ex-colony getting one over on their ex-masters. How the colonies like to beat us. It spurs them on like nothing else, except possibly essence of monkey glands in the tea. As the goal went in you could almost hear a collective sigh from the chippy colony north of the border and I'm not sure what made me happier - the qualification that Crouch's goal confirmed or the knowledge that the Scotch wouldn't be able to wind us up for the next month.

In truth it was a boring match, as had been the previous one-nil over the Paraguayans, and the English team do not look like world beaters. The second best moment in the T&T match was not Stevie G's follow-up goal in the 90th minute, but instead Dwight Yorke's painful 'groin injury' as the TV commentators delicately described it. "The islands’ hardest-working body part received urgent physiotherapy" as Ben Hoyle in The Times put it, when Stevie G smashed a shot right in his knackers. He was down for a good three minutes after that and you couldn't blame him. It took two bottles of water down his shorts and a consoling head massage from the team-physio before he could resume, but like the good soldier he is he did resume and played on 'til the end. Before the match Yorke had said that "It will be a special moment for me," and I'm sure it was - and his own soldier will remember that special moment for a while as well.

The Pain Of Spain

Alas and alack, Nadal swooped on the Rolland Garros prize, the Coupe des Mousquetiers, and he didn't even have to ask his uncle to coach him from the sidelines to help him swoop. And yet, it had all started out so well...

Our hero, Roger the Knight de Vaillant, in his shining blue Nike tennis shirt, has swept all before him with barely a flutter up to the quarters. Nalbandian then succumbs in the semi-final, despite winning the first set comfortably, when he retires hurt in the third set - feelings or stomach muscles, it doesn't matter what is hurting so much as it gives our prince an extra couple of hours rest and no five set gruel-a-thon to tire him out before he plays the tiresome one. Nalbandian's cunning decision to wear a deep orange shirt that actually blends with the clay on the court, no doubt to try and appear invisible and confuse his way to victory, works for the first ten games or so, but once Federer finds his range it's clear what the result will be and Invisible Dave steps, gingerly, clutching his stomach muscles, aside.

Come final day, it's a blistering 31 degrees and the clay is truly baking. The court is packed, the crowd expectant - even the box seats for all the vips is full, which makes a change. Rog steams into a 6-1 first set lead and it's on - the mythical Grand Slam is on. And then. And then. And then... he seems to lose touch. Backhands start skewing high into the air, he's sort of standing around, stops arrowing it on to Nadal's backhand relentlessly. Blah, blah, blah - I can't even bring myself to write it...the bad guy one - total frustration.

Elsewhere, a callow England rugby union team lost tamely to the Ozzies, at a scorchio and baking Silverstone another Spaniard took the number one prize (these paella eaters really like the sun) and Alonso was pure class all the way, leading from start to finish. The World Cup kicked off with our hosts claiming a 4-2 win vs Costa Ricacacacacaaaa and England beat Paraguay 1-0 courtesy of an excellent glancing header - by a Paraguayan. It's gonna be mostly chavball for the next 3 weeks, with 3 games a day for the first 16 days, with a little bit of Queen's Club thrown in for variety. And thence to Wimberleydun SW19 where, hopefully, Roger will have stopped crying by then and be up to re-assert his dominance on the court. I herewith predict Nadal will pull out citing an injury before the third round so he doesn't have to face Federer and be humiliated. A+ mes amis.

Murulalalathitaradadooronron Destroys England

After just three and a half days of test cricket, two of them during the balmiest days of the summer so far, Muttiah Muralitharan took 8-70 as Sri Lanka thrashed England at Trent Bridge to draw the three-Test series 1-1.

At one stage it looked as if the evil-eyed genius was going to get all ten English wickets when he was seven-fer and just the tail to come, but Matty Hoggard decided to rain on his party by running himself out - a cunning strategy to forestall the long-named one joining Jim Laker (in 1959 vs the Half-baked Abbos) and Anil Kumble (in 1999 vs Pakistan) as the only test cricketers to make a clean sweep. In a way it was a shame because Murali (as the TMS commentators eventually settled on calling him) would certainly be deserving of joining a holy trinity such as this. At least we (the English) took it on the chin, with the Nottingham crowd correctly hailing him as he left the pitch. When he was destroying the Australians with his box of tricks some years ago the only answer they had was to call him for chucking. So 1-1 was the eventual score and England will be sorely disappointed they didn't make the 1st test count when they had the Sri Lankans on the ropes and couldn't finish them off.

Elsewhere, an England team were showing better form, with our chavballers pitching in with a six-nil thrashing of Jamaica in their last World Cup warm up match before jetting off to their schloss in Baden-Baden. Apparently the team hotel has only one road leading to it and there will be "a full security blanket around it while the team are there". Phew! At least those foreign spies won't be able to monitor our secret tactics (lob it up to Peter Crouch and hope he gets a head on it) or nobble the players by swapping their tubs of hair gel around and creating internal strife. The castle retreat is a good idea I think. Not so much for the isolation, but for the creation of team-spirit as the lads try to escape by digging tunnels with their platinum hair grips or hiding themselves in a wooden-pommel horse during fitness sessions, in order to get down the pub for a swift-half out of view from Kommandant Herr Gripp. The tourny starts Friday with hosts Germany hoping to avoid humiliation against Costa Ricacacacacacaaaaaa. England's first match is vs Paraguay, a country that was home to a few Nazis and dictators in the past but is now a beacon of democratic government and open society - perhaps. Anyway, we play on Saturday in Frankfurt at 1400 hrs, so note to all non-football interested ladies and homosexuals, if you want some hassle-free shopping now's your chance - all the roads will be empty and no-one will complain about your parking manouvres.

At Roland Garros the hoped for clash of the titans draws ever nearer. Federer has so far waltzed through his side of the draw while Mr Muscles has been power-blasting his way through his opponents on the other side. On the red clay the Day-Glo Dagoe has got to be favourite, but for all those who appreciate skill and grace, the Swiss ace must be our hope. Interminable baseline pounding with graphite sledge-hammers may be effective but it's a crashing bore for those of us brought up on Borg, Connors, McEnroe, Nastase et al. Allez Roger! vas-y!