Euro 2008

[Sweder]

The Greeks are on the whole an affable bunch, infinitely more loveable than their Turkish counterparts. I say this without a trace of irony or bias, basing my conclusions on cold hard fact. But let’s not dwell on my prejudices; let’s talk about football. Or rather, let’s talk about tonight, when a group of affable, loveable Greeks got together to collectively trash their proud heritage, their reputation for unparalleled valour on the field of battle in ugly, tear-stained tatters.

Jose Mourinho once said that Spurs 'parked a bus in front of the goal' playing against Chelsea. Tonight the Greeks went one better, diverting a few of the Spanish blockage lorries to jam the thoroughfare of Swedish footballing endeavour. The commentator on Five Live warmed to this theme, saying the Greeks had deployed two double decker buses right across the pitch. The only thing that tempered my enjoyment of the analogy was the horrible sound of that duplicitous weasel Second Choice Steve chortling in the background. One could almost hear his ludicrous quiff bobbing up and down as he shook with relief at not being exposed to the thousands of irate England fans stuck at home when they should have been out in Austria or Switzerland. To add sharp insult to burning injury my license fee has in some part found its way into his pocket, no doubt nestled alongside a weather forecast and a partly-sucked boiled sweet.

During one of the timeless lulls in the ‘action’ McLaren was asked about Chelski’s pursuit of ‘Big’ Phil Scolari.
‘Reckon you might nip in ahead of him again this time?’ quipped the sycophantic Man from the Beeb. Mr Umbrella chuckled again and I'm sure I could actually hear the blood rushing into his hamsterish cheeks as he blushed like a teenage boy caught with a waterproof playboy and a bottle of Jurgens lotion. Yeah, right; as if. Abramovich might be a wealthy fool but he’s not a complete idiot.

As I drove home after a long tiring day I listened to this pair continue to whine at the Greek intransigence and the inability of the Swedes, hampered by age and fragility, to break the deadlock. It’s weird (not to say nauseating) listening to Second Choice waffle on about a lack of pace and creativity. Well, I suppose he did shadow Lord Ferg in ’99, so he has seen decent football at some point.

Needless to say in the five minutes it took me to park up, shed my suit, wrestle the remote from my horrified daughter and find ITV Sweden had bagged a brace and the unadventurous Greeks were now the sorrowfully dejected unadventurous Greeks. They deserved nothing less – in fact they deserved nothing at all. They should, to a swarthy, bearded man-jack of them, be beaten like red-headed stepchildren and put on the first bus heading south. This ‘none shall pass’ nonsense is nothing short of robbery. The Greeks are thieves; they stole from the paying public and the watching millions. Happily they were caught with their ambition tucked into the back of their shorts and sent packing by the Yellow Peril. England don’t deserve to be in this tournament because they weren’t good enough to qualify; QED, ipso facto. And Greece are? Give me a break.

Czech Republic v Portugal tomorrow; expect more.

Elsewhere the BBC TV crew were having a happier day, sticking rusty pins into their grinning Steve Ryder dolls after his saucy swipe at the feast of futility that was their coverage of the France v Romania wake. Having bought the thin end of the wedge several days running, their matches proving a good deal less enagaging than those on The Other Side, Team Auntie were positively cock-a-hoop to have hosted Spains' demolition of woeful Russia. Jonathan Pearce rose, in the case of his voice literally, to the occasion, sounding like a demented Dalek (sans gargle) as he shreiked along with David Villa's beautifully crafted opener.

I find it hard to warm to Pearce. Many regular match-goers - I am by admission an armchair follower, one or two visits to the Dripping Pan notwithstanding - reckon him to be the real deal. Something to do with his unashamed love for an unfashionable Bristol club and so-called humble background. For me he lacks guile or the wit to stay quiet when no words are needed, as some of the finest exponents of his art, men like Brian Moore and Brian Butler, instinctively knew. There's something of the Walker about Pearce, a foaming, raging maelstrom of verbostity waiting to burst its banks at the first sign of anything. Still, you can't say the man's not enthusiastic.

I am warming to Fernando Torres though. He's one to watch, you mark my words. I'll be on to Lord F in the morning to see if he can't tap him u . . er . . . investigate his availability through entirely fair and equitable channels. Who does he play for again?