The Damage Done (And The Needle)

If you’ve not been following the thrilling story of my operation and recovery, it starts here, then goes here, here and here.

Last week, in my first week of being housebound, I was required to inject myself once a day. I never thought I’d be able to do that. In fact, whenever I’ve had an injection I’ve always turned my head away (which is quite painful when you do it at the dentist). When my doctor told me that I would need to inject myself every day for a week, I think I dreaded that more than anything else I was told about the rehabilitation process.

I was to inject into my tummy. At least I couldn’t miss.

The injection would thin my blood, preventing clots. The first time I did it I spent a few minutes psyching myself up. I stared at the needle, one moment trying to intimidate it, the next trying to make friends with it. It was probably less than an inch in length, but looked considerably longer. Was it really worth injecting myself just to avoid a potential blood clot or two? I asked myself what Humphrey Bogart would do. This helped. In the end, I decided to be a real man, like Bogart, and go ahead with it with a stupidly aggressive stabbing type action which would really impress someone like Lauren Bacall, were she watching. I had the needle. I had the stubble. The only thing I didn’t have was the preparatory Scotch.

I aimed the needle in the general direction of my guts and looked away, preparing myself for the classic backlift and stab (or the lift and drive, if you prefer). The next time I looked down, I was amazed to discover that the needle was already in. I pushed down and finished the job. Honestly didn’t feel a thing.

That hypothetical Bogart was a proper Jessie, wasn’t he?

Today I had my first physio appointment as an out-patient. I was there for an hour. It cost the equivalent of twenty quid. In England, when I first tore my ligament, it cost 80 quid for about 40 minutes.

I was given some interferential treatment: an electrical current is passed through the leg via electrodes. This creates a tingling sensation which feels a bit like localised, intense pins and needles. You feel the muscle twitching. It reduces swelling.

I’ve got a lot of exercises to do, too. In short, I need to straighten and bend a leg that doesn’t want to straighten and bend, for about half an hour, three times a day.

The woman from the high-rise opposite came round again today and made me this for my tea. It’s not just dinner: it’s a healthy, beautifully presented meal. Winner. I've been very touched by her kindness.



As if by magic, I can post photos without having to use Hello again. Thanks to Andy for his technical, amusing and ultimately unnecessary email support. And Jonny, too, for trying to assist in the comments section.

Back Home

The first couple of days back home and out of hospital were relatively painless, even when I stood up (with my crutches, of course). I hadn’t seen my wound as, when I awoke after the operation, my leg was wrapped in a fairly heavy bandage, which wasn’t to be removed until I went back to the doctor a week later. Can you imagine having to wait a week to see what lay beneath? The suspense almost killed me. As did the itchiness.

After this painless start, my physio exercises suddenly became harder and I felt as if I was going backwards. The bandage began to bulge alarmingly just below the knee. It throbbed like a cartoon thumb hit with a cartoon hammer. It was very solid to the touch, too. Either I was swelling up or something was wrong. It was Saturday, so I couldn’t speak to my doctor. This was bound to be normal, I persuaded myself. After all, the knee had just been through a very traumatic experience.

Sadly, I didn’t really manage to convince myself. Instead, I went through all the different possibilities. Maybe I had an infection. Maybe my bandage was too tight and this was some kind of build up of pressure. Perhaps it would explode soon. I became afraid of the growth beneath my knee. Standing up had become extremely painful, not only where the swelling was, but also just underneath it on the shin. I saw stars each time. I watched the football on Sunday night with a twig clamped between my teeth. I was desperate to get the bandage off.

On the Monday morning, rather than getting dressed, I decided to wrap a towel around my naked self and crutch-hop off to the kitchen for breakfast. This is quite possibly the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. I live in a high-rise with another high-rise opposite and we can see into each other’s homes. I’d left my curtains open overnight. I don’t think I need to write the next paragraph.

But I will. The towel almost fell off once, but I managed to grab it just in time. This happened again as I was crutch-hopping from fridge to lounge. The final time it happened, I was on the way from lounge to bathroom and I didn’t manage to catch the towel in time. At the same time as dropping the towel, one of my crutches slipped and I put a little too much weight on my bad leg. It was rather painful, to say the least. Had anyone been looking over from the high-rise opposite at that point, they would have seen a naked man spreadeagled, Peter Crouch-like, with a pained expression on his face.

Since then, I’ve got dressed before crutch-hopping anywhere.

My journey to the doctor was my first experience of the outside world since being discharged five days before. It’s big out there.

My doctor took the bandage and dressing off and, for the first time, I was staring at the ugly, stitched mound beneath my knee. Above the mound, my knee seemed to have been shaved and it looked like a baby’s bottom, kind of swollen and rubbery and soft. I was still fretting about whether something had gone wrong. I told him about the excruciating pain when I stand up. He smiled.
“Does it feel like someone’s sticking a red hot poker into your leg?” he asked cheerfully.
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”
“Perfectly normal at this stage,” he said.

I wish he’d told me to expect that. Of course, once he’d told me it was perfectly normal, the pain immediately became less intense.

I now have a smaller, compress-type bandage over my knee, which is far more comfortable and it’s gradually becoming less painful each day. I may even be able to return to work next week. This will mean that I will need to shave. I haven’t shaved since going into hospital. I almost have a beard. I don't want to shave it off in case it's a lucky beard in some way. Or perhaps I just don't want to go back to work.

I’ve had quite a few visitors over the last couple of weeks, but one person has come to see me every day. In Singapore loads of people have maids from the Philippines or Indonesia or somewhere. A lot of people have shocking attitudes towards them, like this, for example, written by a celebrity blogger (you have to scroll all the way down to the end to read her invective). One of the maids from the high-rise opposite, who Ella and I have got to know a bit, has come over to see me every day to make me a flask of tea. I’ve given her a key so she can just come in every day without me having to get out of my seat.

We got to know her through a family in the high-rise opposite. They asked her to pop round and see Ella when she had dengue fever last summer (I was in England at the time). She came in and asked if she could do anything for Ella. When Ella said no, she just sat and held Ella’s hand for fifteen minutes.

When I got home from the doctors, she’d been round again and had left a plate of sandwiches for me on the table with my flask of tea. Today she brought me a Thai green curry. I offered her some money, but she didn’t want it (she told me she’s not allowed to take any money from anyone other than her employer anyway).

Her kindness has made it all so much easier for me over the last couple of weeks. A bunch of flowers when I’m back on my feet doesn’t quite seem enough.

Here are some photos of my impressive leg.

By the way, is anyone else having trouble posting pictures? I can't seem to use the usual post picture link thing so I have to use Hello. How do I do it using HTML. Anyone know what I'm talking about?

Youch! 

The Peter Crouch Drinking Game ™

Bored of watching England’s lacklustre performances in this World Cup? Wish that you had something to do while you were watching that was an entertaining distraction, but also enabled you to concentrate on the game? Well, you need look no further. Throughout England's last game in this World Cup against Portugal on Saturday, you can play The Peter Crouch Drinking Game™ (TPCDG™ for short).

It’s the usual drinking game drill: you have to down one, two or three fingers of booze according to Crouch’s involvement. I can guarantee that you’ll be hammered by the end of the game, so I advise using water as a beer substitute, especially as I'm on anti-biotics. Or something.

Before we start, I’ve been devising this game for a while (it’s hardly original anyway), so was interested to see whether it would still work with Crouch on the bench as he was in the last game. It mostly does.

It’s mainly based on what commentators say. Here goes!

If you hear: “6 feet 7” – one finger.

If you hear the exact words: “all six feet seven of him” – three fingers.

For any reference to Crouch being “at altitude” – two fingers.

For an obscure “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” pun – down your drink.

If you hear the classic: “he has a good touch for a big man” – three fingers.

Any reference to him being taller than the stadium (which I’ve heard once during this tournament, so there is precedent) or having snow on the top of his head – down your drink.

For a Crouch height statistic (eg he’s the second tallest man in the World Cup, or he’s England’s tallest player ever) – two fingers.

For any other comment about Crouch’s height – one finger (two if it's particularly inane - be your own judge).

For a sneaky tug of the centre back’s dreadlocks (or hair in the absence of dreadlocks) – one finger.

For a Crouch shinner that goes out for a goal kick – three fingers (very unlikely).

For a Crouch shinner that goes out for a throw-in – one finger (much more likely).

Every time there’s a slow motion replay of the ball hitting Crouch’s head – one finger.

For a Crouch hat-trick (one off each shin and one off the backside) – down that drink.

Finally, if Crouch ever assumes the human swastika position again, down your drink whilst trying to assume the position yourself.

Any other suggestions? Please put them in the comments section.

Er... Crouching Tiger Hidden Linesman... 

Operation: Out Of Hospital

The day after the operation, I was taken in a wheelchair to the Physio department to “learn how to use crutches”.

I now know how to use crutches.

After being taught how to use crutches, I was asked whether I wanted to buy any crutches. I wasn’t really sure what to say to this. The conversation went something like this:
“Would you like to buy some crutches, Mr Michael?”
“Er… what?”
“Some crutches.”
“Well… either that or I can borrow some or something.”
“We don’t have any for hire for hygiene reasons.”
“OK. I assume I need crutches?” I asked.
“You don’t already own any crutches, Mr Michael?”
“Er… no… but I do need them?” I reiterated.
“Oh yes, you won’t be able to walk without crutches for about three weeks.”
“I think I’ll buy some crutches.”

I bought some crutches.

I take part in this kind of pointless, cyclical conversation frequently in Singapore. I don’t quite understand the pragmatics of conversation here, I don’t think, and mine aren’t understood either.

Being wheeled around was quite strange. At every corner I would flinch in case someone was coming around the corner in the opposite direction. My bad leg was sticking out so would have been the first point of contact. Fortunately, there were no collisions. However, on each of the three occasions that my physiotherapist wheeled me somewhere, she banged my foot against a wall.

Back in my room I was desperate to get some sleep during the afternoon so that I wouldn’t miss the football that night. However, the bloke in the next bed was sleeping and, no matter much I turned up my MP3 player and no matter how many times I clapped my hands loudly or cleared my throat violently, I couldn’t wake him up. His snore was a deep, cartoon growl which shook my book as it lay in my hands. I even tried shouting indiscriminate noises as a last resort, but nothing would stop the guttural rumblings. Eventually I did the only thing I could: I asked, sheepishly, to be moved.

My new room was eerily silent and I was unable to sleep.

The England v Sweden match kicked off at 3am Singapore time. As soon as Michael Owen went down, I thought to myself, “that looks familiar.” Indeed, the poor chap now has exactly the same injury I’ve just had repaired. As you can imagine, every time they showed it I turned away from the screen. They kept showing it, though. Worse still, the stupid commentator we have here had a Peter Crouch quip ready. As Crouch came on (all six feet seven of him) he said: “And it’s Crouching tiger, hidden Owen!”

Buffoon.

I’m going to race Michael Owen back to fitness, anyway. Look out for me in the Boxing Day fixtures.

England played well in the first half, but then it fell apart again. I wasn’t at my supportive best, though: I was still a bit groggy. When our second goal went in I was surprised that I hadn’t immediately gone “Yes!” and everything, like I usually do. I had to persuade myself that it was worth the effort, and finally managed to punch the air in delight and utter the affirmative word just after Sweden had restarted the game. Despite my recent criticism of Roger Hargreaves, I thought he was probably our best player apart from Joe Cole. I’m hoping we play against Argentina at some point just so that Roger Hargreaves can meet up with Mr Messi.

Sorry.

Anyway, after the game I probably got some sleep. After all, I was going home the next day. I needed to keep my strength up.

I was let out the next morning after another painful wheelchair journey courtesy of my physiotherapist. This morning she had some advice for me: "Don't kick anything," she said. I joked that it was lucky she had told me that because otherwise I'd have gone home and started playing headers and volleys. Rather sternly she told me that doing this would slow down my recovery.

Before I was discharged, I also had time to browse some magazines which had a sticker on them which said, “Please do not remove (for reading purposes only).”

It was good to be home. But a little bit scary too. Suddenly, I was all on my own.

Reminder

For the players in the Holland and Portugal teams: the World Cup motto is "A time to make friends."

I love games like that.

Operation 2

I was woken up by the anaesthetist saying my name. I don’t know about you, but I get “sleep guilt”. Whenever I fall asleep during the day or in a public place or on the sofa and someone wakes me up, or asks if I was asleep, I maintain in the strongest possible terms that I was doing anything but sleeping. Bizarrely, the first thing I felt after waking up from the general was sleep guilt. I didn’t know where I was or who it was that had woken me, but I woke up determined that I would argue vociferously that I hadn’t been asleep.

Fortunately, as I tried to claim my innocence, I found that I couldn’t speak in sentences yet.

After a second or so, I felt a dull ache in my knee and it all came back to me. I was asked if I was in any pain and, for some reason, I said no. I felt that the dull ache didn’t really qualify as pain. I kept saying no, actually, throughout my time in hospital. Stupid of me. All that free morphine available and everything.

I was wheeled back to my room; a journey which I can remember a lot less clearly than the journey to theatre. I was transferred onto my bed and people began attaching things to me. My feet had what I can only describe as inflatable socks velcroed to them. Every ten seconds, the right sock would inflate with air, then deflate. Ten seconds later the left sock would do the same thing. According to the nurse who attached them, this was my exercise: it kept my circulation going. I also had ice on my knee and a drip in my hand.

My doctor/surgeon was there and he gave me some photographs of the operation, which he explained to me, but I couldn’t really take it in. I was also given a jar with some small bones in it that had been removed from my knee. I lay there clutching them for a few minutes, trying to work out how I could get them from my hand to the bedside table. You can see photos of these items below. I think that the knee looks in worse nick after the operation, to be honest, but what do I know. The new ligament (actually a hamstring) is the thing that looks the same colour as a prawn.

The next few hours are very hazy in my memory, but I was given a three course meal almost immediately (or maybe hours later) which, to my surprise, I wolfed down. I drank a lot of water too. I made a nonsensical phone call to my friend, too, who had agreed to pick me up. This probably worried him rather than reassured him.

I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. There were several reasons for this. I would shut my eyes, relax and feel myself dropping off. Then someone would punch the underside of my right foot. I would come round and realise that no one was punching my right foot: it was just the inflatable sock inflating. The same process would happen again until I was punched on the underside of my left foot.

This process became more complicated as the night went on because I gradually became more and more desperate to pee. For some reason, I couldn’t; probably something to do with the combination of drugs that had been administered to me. I kept drinking water thinking that it would help. It didn’t. It just made me more desperate.

So now I would be almost off to sleep when I would feel the punch on my foot, then I would come round, realise that I needed a pee, spend a few minutes with a receptacle in position, waiting for Godot, as it were, before giving up and trying to sleep again. I would almost be asleep when someone would punch me on the foot and the whole process would start again.

As the night wore on, I started to give myself a stern talking to each time I tried to pee. I also started to… er… push things a little. Indeed, I started to worry that I was straining so hard in vain at one end that I might end up yielding unwanted bounty at the other. Either that or I thought I might burst my stitches.

I was told almost immediately that I would be in for two nights. I feared that this would mean that I would miss England v Sweden because, although there was a tv, the hospital surely hadn’t subscribed to the World Cup Premium channel. As it happened, they had subscribed to an Indonesian channel which enabled me to watch three out of the four live games, including the England game. Having said that, I can’t even remember who was playing on the first night, but I do remember that my eyes were open and that I was looking at the tv. I turned the sound down because the commentary was in Bahasa Indonesia.

The next day I discovered that the commentary was actually in English.

The Indonesian coverage was very reminiscent of Chanel 9 on The Fast Show. It was sponsored by “Extra Joss”, which is an Indonesian energy drink, endorsed by Cristiano Ronaldo. He features in one advert with a bare, greased torso, doing kick-ups, while around him some Balinese men do the Kecak Fire Dance. How do I know they’re Balinese? Because I recognised them. They were the same dancers Ella and I had seen in Bali when we were there in April.

Just before breakfast, I finally managed to pee. My litre-sized cup almost runneth over.

Before... 

Removed Bones 

After... 

Operation 1

I arrived four hours before my operation and was immediately put to bed. Over the course of the next four hours, I was asked by about ten different people whether I had any allergies, whether I was on any medication and which knee was going to be operated on.

I thought they were supposed to know all that.

I was in a two-bed room. The guy in the next bed had seemed heavily sedated when I arrived. A curtain now separated us. He suddenly started coughing violently, a hacking, racking, sapping expurgation. I was a little disturbed, but a nurse came in and rolled her eyes as if this was nothing to be alarmed about. Apparently, anaesthetic affects the lungs and I assumed this was why he was coughing so horribly. I was given a big box of tissues and was told that I might need them after the operation.

Despite these slightly nerve-wracking incidents, I was still in fairly good spirits. The next four hours went by fairly quickly. I had a phone call from Ella, started reading my book and listened to music. With about an hour to go, I put on my hospital pyjamas. My nurse had told me that I would need to take my underwear off. I must have looked nonplussed at this because she said she’d get me some disposable underwear. I put it on and it changed the way I felt immediately: if there’s anything in the world that makes you feel more submissive and helpless than hospital pyjamas and paper underwear then I hadn’t come across it.

The anaesthetist visited and was very reassuring. He ran through the list of drugs I’d be on and told me that, as well as morphine intravenously, he’d also be administering a couple of suppositories. After he’d gone I allowed this to sink in. The image of my anaesthetised self having my legs lifted and paper underwear removed so that he could insert the suppositories lingered uncomfortably. I think I was a bit irrational by this stage because I went and took the paper underwear off, thinking that the nurse had only given me them as an afterthought and that this would make the task easier for the anaesthetist.

Two minutes later the nurse came back and asked if I had the paper underwear on. When I said no, she looked bemused and told me to put it on. I had to go and fish it out of the bin in the bathroom. This would be the last thing I would do on my feet before the operation.

Soon after this I was collected to go to the operating theatre. They put a paper hat and paper socks on me. I had now come across something that made me feel more submissive and helpless than hospital pyjamas and paper underwear.

The journey to the operating theatre was classic ER or M*A*S*H. It’s exactly how it is in the movies. This is the first operation I can remember having, but this journey felt familiar and therefore, I suppose, slightly reassuring. I made sure that I looked at the lights above me the whole way and kept pretending that I was watching a film.

I was kept in some kind of holding room before going into theatre. Someone kept farting. I couldn’t tell whether it was a nurse or an anaesthetised patient. Still, it was nice to be wheeled into theatre with the laughter of the nurses ringing in my ears.

The anaesthetist was there to meet me. He told me that the doctor (surgeon, I thought, surely he’s surgeon) would be a bit late. We chatted about the football and where I’ve been since moving to Singapore. When I mentioned Sri Lanka, he said that a couple of his friends had been there when the tsunami hit, but they were ok. I then related my near-miss with the tsunami. Just as I finished, the surgeon walked in, shook my hand and wrote his initials on my leg. Thus branded, having just related the most traumatic thing to happen to me since I’ve been here (if ever), the anaesthetist was given permission to start putting me to sleep.

I can remember wondering whether it was possible to dream whilst anaesthetised, concerned that my dreams might be influenced by my last topic of conversation. Very quickly, though, all was well with the world. I felt a pulse of wellbeing travel from my head to my toes. This must be morphine, I thought. I felt like the Ready Brek man in the old adverts – I could feel the warm glow surround me. Everything was suddenly perfect about the world and I can remember thinking that I’d just been talking about a powerful wave and that here was a powerful wave coursing through my body.

Then the room gradually faded to black.

Impatient Out-patient

Got home yesterday. Tired and in relatively good spirits. Getting a bit bored of feeling too tired to do anything, though. They operated on the correct knee (and left my breasts alone). I have photos and bones. I also have stories. Maybe after a nap…

In The Meantime...

I leave for hospital in about half an hour. My "nil by mouth" started an hour and a quarter ago. I'm parched already. Got a slight case of the butterflies. I feel less nervous than I did before the start of the England v Paraguay game though. Surely that doesn't mean that the game was more important to me than my knee? That would be stupid.

Anyway, just in case you miss me writing about football over the next couple of days, I've written about football in the A-Z of football on Cheer Up Alan Shearer, as have lots of other people.

See you after.

The Final Countdown

My knee operation is one day away now. I’ve been avoiding writing about it because I’ve not really been thinking about it. Not too much, anyway.

It’s odd to think that my knee is in bad nick at the moment, but I can get about, bend it normally, kneel down, stand up and all that without much of a problem. I’ve even played football and basketball on it without realising that I shouldn’t have been. This time tomorrow, the operation to make it better will have finished and I’ll barely be able to move it at all.

That reminds me. Must cut my toenails while I still can.

The recovery’s going to be an interesting old process. Ella’s away, so I’ll be on my own. Solitude sometimes sends me a bit funny. Solitude plus painkillers will probably even things out a bit.

My doctor’s told me that I’ll need to rest for at least two weeks after the op. This means that I’ll need to find things to do while I sit with my leg up. Of course, there’s the World Cup, so I’m expecting to get into a routine of going to bed at about 5am, which is when the late kick-offs finish. There are still plenty of non-football hours to fill, though.

I’ve bought loads of CDs and DVDs to keep me entertained. While I’m writing about that, if you like American lo-fi noiseniks (whatever that means) then Sonic Youth’s new album, Rather Ripped, is a little gem. Listening to Rather Ripped brought back memories of listening to Daydream Nation when I was about 15. I was briefly transported back into my 15 year old self. I managed to escape.

The last Sonic Youth album I listened to was Dirty in 1992, which had some brilliant songs on it. Perhaps I need to buy the ten albums I've missed since then. Snow Patrol’s new album is possibly even better than the last one. Gnarls Barkley is also top notch, although I expect you’re all a bit sick of him in Britain.

There are loads of black and white films out on DVD here with Chinese subtitles for about the equivalent of one pound fifty. I’ve got a few Hitchcocks – I’m building up quite a collection now - and some famous films that I’ve never seen like “Brief Encounter”, “Goodbye Mr Chips” and the original “Mr Deeds Goes To Town”. I got a couple of Sherlock Holmes movies from the 1940s with Basil Rathbone playing Holmes too. Winner. I’ve also bought some more modern stuff that I’ve never seen like Scarface, Garden State, Chinatown and The Merchant of Venice with Pacino.

However, what with the football and the fact that I’ll be editing another film for work while I’m at home, I don’t think I’m going to have much time to watch many of them. I’m being sent some marking to do as well. Hurrah!

I’ll be writing a fair bit, I’d have thought, and I’ll probably do a video diary. That’ll be a laugh. I have about six books to read.

The furniture has been rearranged because of my lack of mobility. I’ve made lots of meals which I’ve frozen. The fridge has beer in it.

As you can see, I’m determined not to be idle. At least, not mentally. It’s all very well to make these plans, though, but various people who know people who know people who’ve had the same operation as me keep talking about pain and drowsiness and things. At the moment, though, I’m being positive. I’ll get loads done.

My first goal is to be home 24 hours later, which will enable me to watch the England v Sweden game which kicks off at 2am my time. Again, people who know about things like operations think I might not be able to wake up for it. They keep suggesting that I’ll be groggy and sleepy and tired and miserable. Which is how watching England makes me feel, actually, so I definitely have to get up. Two minuses equal a plus, right?

On Friday, my colleagues were asking me about the op. When I said it was taking place early evening, one of them made that sucking in of breath noise that mechanics always make when they open your car bonnet. I ignored it for as long as I could. She tutted and shook her head a couple of times.
“Alright, what?” I asked.
“Evening operations,” she said.
“What?”
“Tired surgeon… lower hygiene standards…”
Another colleague chipped in: “I’d get a marker pen and draw a big cross on the bad knee if I were you.”

It’ll be fine.

Starting A Sentence Without Knowing How It's Going To Finish

Once again, yesterday revealed that commentators start sentences with little idea how they're going to finish them.

From Portugal v Iran:
"Cristiano Ronaldo, who loves playing for his country as much as anyone..."

From Ghana v Czech Republic:
"They'll be loving this across Africa, watching the game at petrol stations across the continent... you can just picture it."

From USA v Italy:
"The referee's giving a lot of free kicks, but he's from Uruguay, so he'll be used to that."

"Kasey Keller's an intelligent man: he actually wears glasses off the field and he enjoys grunge and garage music."

_____________________________________________

There are two ways to play football at this World Cup: slowly, cagily and tentatively with tactics that seem to be so ingrained that they suffocate the team's natural abilities (like England), or all-out-attack, going for the win, playing quickly and a little riskily. Actually, there's a third way, too: Argentina.

The second way has been prevalent over the last couple of days and has "brought the tournament to life". I'm mainly talking about the games between Holland and the Ivory Coast and then yesterday's between the Czechs and Ghana. Yesterday's game in particular was incredibly exciting. Even with 10 men, the Czechs managed to keep running, they kept making chances and they kept taking risks. The Ghanans were brilliant.

These teams play with such flair and pace that they seem to put England in the shade. We thought we were good before the tournament started, but I don't think anyone realised just how good everyone else is. We seem slow, predictable and devoid of ideas in comparison.

Anyway, bring on more games like yesterday's.

Quotes Of The Day

More skewering of the English language occured during the World Cup coverage yesterday. I love it. Henri Michel, Côte d'Ivoire manager, said this in French, though: "Experience can only come with games."

Does anyone know why we call them Côte d'Ivoire rather than the Ivory Coast? We don't call Spain "España", for example.

The commentator was getting excited about the names of the players yesterday. He said: "Super names they've got. And super players too. The Elephants they're known as, but they don't play like elephants... very light of tread."

On the officials: "A lot of decisions to be made for the officials here."

And on slow motion replays not being able to detect whether something's a foul or not: "The cameras are so fast these days."

When Dwight Yorke was struck painfully in the match against England, our commentator helpfully pointed out that he had been hit in the "Michael Ballacks."

Finally, there was a penalty for Spain in the game against Ukraine. The goalkeeper got a hand to it, but it went in. The commentator said: "It's a save, but only into the back of the net."

The Insightful Peter Crouch

I very much enjoyed reading two things Peter Crouch is quoted as saying on the BBC website.

Firstly, it seems he has grasped the main object of playing football: “it's not about robotic dancing. It is about scoring goals and winning matches.”

Glad he’s pointed that out.

He also talked about the booking he received in the Paraguay game. He’s got an idea about how he can make sure it doesn’t happen again: “I'm not going to change my game, although I may have to adapt it a bit.”

So, all we can surmise from that is that he might or might not be modifying his game.

Captions for this photo, anyone?

Swede Or Turnip?

It’s good to get a win under the belts, but England’s win against Paraguay has punctured the optimism I had been allowing to build up following the victories against Hungary and Jamaica, and more importantly after noting Sven’s cavalier demeanour in interviews over the last few weeks. I thought things might be different. Yesterday told me that England won’t win this World Cup, and it’s all because the manager persists in trying to fit square pegs in round holes.

Sadly, Sven has done most of his managing in Italy. He therefore manages as if he’s managing an Italian team. If we nose in front, there’s only one thing that we should do in his mind: defend the lead.

This is his third major tournament in charge and he still hasn’t realised that we don’t know how to do that. That’s not how we play in England. I thought he’d learnt that from the defeats against Brazil and Portugal in the last two tournaments and all those Premiership games he turns up at.

Sven has brought the young, fresh talents of Walcott and Lennon with him. Their selection in the squad was un-Svenlike, and was another of the reasons why I thought he might go out in style. The Paraguay game was a perfect opportunity to bring one, or both of them, on and keep the opposition on the back foot. What did Sven do? He brought on Downing, who isn’t a bad player, but is unlikely to change the game. Downing played two beautiful long passes, but they were both lateral balls from the left touchline to the right. He ran quickly, but then didn’t know what to do with the ball once he reached the penalty area.

As for Roger Hargreaves… does anybody anywhere understand why he’s in the squad? Did he do anything when he came on? Are these two the 12th and 13th best players in England?

Perhaps Joe Cole was injured, but he was our best player and I was shocked that he was taken off. I’m astonished to find myself admitting that Crouch was our second best player. I’m actually thinking that Crouch and Rooney would be a better combination than the invisible Owen and Rooney. Those slow-motion replays of the ball hitting Crouch in the face provided some rare moments of amusement, too. Perhaps Owen just needs a little more time. There's not much left, mind.

So, all my hopes that we’d see a cavalier, exciting, bullish, attacking, English England in this World Cup were deflated by Sven’s insipid substitutions in the second half. What’s astonishing is that there isn’t a single pundit, amateur or professional, who agrees with him, or can understand what he’s doing. What was the point in picking those young lads and creating all the hype if he’s not going to take a look at them? Do we really need to close down a game against Paraguay and therefore risk drawing it?

Sometimes I wonder whether maybe Sven’s plan is to use Walcott and Lennon if we’re losing. But when I think back to England v Brazil four years ago when England were 2-1 down, with Brazil down to 10 men, I remember that Sven brought Phil Neville on.

We won’t beat a good team playing like that. We won’t beat a good team if we don’t play to our strengths. We won’t beat a good team if we try to sit on a slender lead. What I don’t understand is how our coach hasn’t worked that out yet when everyone else has.

Germans, Yesterday 

A Time To Make Friends Begins

Opening ceremonies manage to be fervently nationalistic whilst also bizarrely functioning as a welcome to lots of foreigners. They play on national stereotypes and are camp, kitsch and carnivalesque. England, hosts of Euro 96, decided that a re-enactment of the legend of St George (you know, that English bloke who probably came from Palestine) slaying the dragon would be one way to sum up the host nation. In USA 94, Diana Ross ran onto the pitch and missed a penalty. I don’t know what that summed up about the USA, but it was very entertaining. The World Cup opening ceremony yesterday was a spectacle, to say the least. It finished with the amusing sight of Jackie Charlton, Ozzie Ardiles, Pele, Laurent Blanc et al trying to look like they were enjoying an awful terrace-pop anthem. In fact, I think Pele was enjoying it. I wanted another hour of it at least.

If an Englishman had been the creative director of that opening ceremony I wouldn’t have been surprised. It featured Germans in Lederhosen, braces and hats slapping their knees and ankles. It featured whips, fifteen feet in length, being cracked. It featured excited looking men waggling their midriffs which bore giant cowbells. It featured giant haystacks (no, not that Giant Haystacks). It featured a really terrible attempt at hip-hop (I think Peter Crouch featured in the dance troupe) and an even worse song, sung by an old man.

Let’s recap: leather, braces, hats, whips, hay (in giant stacks), bad pop music, bad fashion. Possibly the only thing missing from the Englishman’s national stereotype of a German was an empty sunlounger draped with a towel. I’ve never been to Germany, so always thought that these stereotypes were crude. It turns out that, in fact, it is precisely this image which Germany wants to project to the world.

The commentary usually makes the opening ceremony even better. Sadly, I don't get the BBC’s coverage here, and I miss it. Here in Singapore I’ve bought four dedicated World Cup football channels, which is the only way to see all the games. It only cost about three quid. But the BBC is free and has Motty. For the opening ceremony we had one of those commentators whose voice you recognise but you don’t know his name. Those sub-Tony Gubba types.

Still, at least it wasn't Barry Davies, the priggish bigot.

Anyway, the commentary during the ceremony and the opening game was shocking. “Red, green, yellow, black, white, any colour you can think of, it’s all here,” is how he started. You’d think, if you were commentating on the biggest event in football, you’d have prepared something more interesting to say than that.

There is a very cheesy motto for the tournament this year. Apparently, it’s “a time to make friends”. Hmmm. We’ll see when the knock-out phase starts.

As for the games: Germany and Costa Rica were rubbish, but provided a fair bit of entertainment and some great goals. Poland, I thought, looked like the best team in the group, despite losing 2-0. They were very unlucky, scoring a goal that was wrongly disallowed and hitting the post twice. Still, you make your own luck in this game, Brian. England can’t possibly lose to any of those four teams in the next round, though, surely? If we get there. Of course, I'm not writing off the Germans. If I did that I'd be at my peril.

I expect they'll overrun Poland anyway. Not for the first time.

Finally, I’m all set and fully chavved-up for England’s first match. Ella bought me the wristbands – my first concession to the bizarre fashion of wearing a cheap piece of plastic on the wrist. I like it. In fact, I’ve wanted one for ages, but felt too embarrassed to buy one at my age (all the kids have them at school, of course) and now I have two and the excuse that it was a gift. Brilliant.

The bottle cooler was a gift from a colleague, who was in England last week. It came with the following packaging. You can tell that the target market for this product in England is expected to need a little bit of help in working out how to use it and also needs to keep the packaging in case they forget what the product is for.

Fan 

What Does It Do? 

What's It For Again? 

To The Regiment!

Went out for a drink on Friday night. Met my friend at the pub. Sat down and a waiter took my order (not like a real pub, where you queue at the bar). When he brought my drink to me, he moved his head close to mine in a conspiratorial kind of way and said, softly, so that my friend couldn’t hear, “The man over there is paying for this one.” He nodded his head in the direction of the other side of the bar, about 10 metres away. Embarrassed, I shot a glance in that direction and saw a bloke I didn’t recognise who raised his glass at me. I gave a little wave back.

My friend, who hadn’t heard a thing, asked what was going on. I explained that I’d just been bought a drink by a man I didn’t know. I was a little bit unnerved, actually, mainly because of the waiter’s clandestine manner of telling me who the drink was from. My friend didn’t help matters. “I had a feeling this was turning into a gay bar,” he said.

I wasn’t actually bothered if it was, although my friend seemed amused by the idea. What bothered me more was the fact that if I accepted the drink, I would need to go over and start a conversation with him. I don’t like other people very much. That is, I’m quite shy and stick to who I know rather than going up to strangers and trying to make friends with them.

My plan for the evening had been simple: go out for a quiet drink with my friend. I was annoyed that, from the instant I arrived, this plan had been ambushed and I was now being forced to make a decision: I could accept the drink and ignore the chap who bought it for me (rude); I could accept the drink and go over and chat to him (embarrassing and intimidating); I could tell the waiter that I would pay for my drink myself (rude, embarrassing, but avoids confrontation).

My friend was enjoying this situation immensely. He was running through my options and telling me that this kind of thing had never happened to him. Not for the first time, my friend went through a fairly detailed explanation of what Tom Cruise would do. Apparently, Cruise would have gone over and looked at the guy intensely (which my friend demonstrated by raising one eyebrow) before being very upfront, saying, “Why have you bought me a drink?” I asked whether I should also kick anything over or throw something at a wall as Cruise does in every film he’s ever been in. He advised against it.

In case this Cruise stuff seems a bit random, my friend’s the same age as the diminutive film star, so I think he’s always lived vicariously through him, as it were. The other day I heard him say that he was going to be like Cruise at a meeting he was on his way to.

Back to the story. After finishing his Cruise impression, my friend also advised me to tell the waiter I would pay for the drink myself. This seemed a lot easier, so I had a little word with the waiter, explaining that whilst it was very kind of the chap to offer to buy me a drink, I’d have to respectfully decline. The waiter asked me if I knew him. I explained that I didn’t.

I felt like old Tommy in Early Doors.

A couple of minutes later, the waiter returned to inform me that, actually, I did know the chap. I was informed that I taught his daughter, so perhaps you could accept the drink now, sir?

I cringed and felt like Frank Spencer for a couple of minutes. My friend spent the same amount of time laughing at me. He then told me that I had to go over there now. However much I didn’t want to, I realised that I had no other option. My friend advised me to wander over whilst cleaning my spectacles and to explain that it was dark and dingy in the bar, all the time apologising profusely. In a sudden movie-star U-turn, he advised me to “Be Hugh Grant.”

As I approached the chap’s table, I saw, for the first time, that there were two chaps sitting together. Alarmingly, I didn’t recognise either of them. I decided to hedge my bets: I would look from face to face as I shook each of their hands in turn, showering my thanks and apologies around liberally.

Fortunately, the chap whose daughter I teach identified himself quickly by introducing me to his friend and saying the name of his daughter. It all fell into place then. I’d met him at a couple of parents’ evenings. He was very kind in his comments about me, and didn’t seem to mind the fact that I’d initially refused his drink.

The creeping horror had intensified, though. I realised his wife works at my school too.

She’s a Headteacher.

Here Comes The Pun King

Whilst he was summing up England's performance and, in particular, Peter Crouch's contribution to the win against Jamaica, Martin Tyler said:

"Crouch the tiger is certainly no hidden dragon".

Anyone?

Face Off

The other week I bought an electric razor for the first time after years of wet-shaving.

Gone are the days of throwing a Mach 3 razor sexily into a glass before sweeping water onto my face in slow motion, removing all the soap with one scoop, after which a beautiful woman runs a finger down my cheek.

I made the change because, unlike in the adverts, I felt that it took me a bit too long to shave.

With my new electric razor it now takes me about four times as long before I get to the point where I give up (leaving a few patches).

According to the packaging it’ll take my face about 3 weeks to get used to the razor. In the meantime, the razor seems to be getting used to my face.

PS
I notice that Gilette have introduced the follow-up to the Mach 3. It appears that some bright spark at Gilette has come up with the idea of adding a fourth blade. They're calling it the Mach 4, apparently. Who would've predicted that?