Good night, and good luck. And while you're at it, fuck off and get me a beer

Well, it's been fun. Educational, too. We've learned a lot about ourselves on the journey, as well as our place in the world. We've had a crash course in being a proper country with an actual football team, being exposed to the dizzying highs and shattering lows of nearly 80 years of World Cup history inside four games. It's been eventful, compelling, all-consuming. So absorbing that the minutiae of life just fades into insignificance. Apparently NSW got thrashed in Origin II. Yes, apparently there WAS an Origin II. Who knew? Next you'll be telling me the Bunnies got hammered by a record score to blot by someone totally shit like the New Zillund Worry Arse.

But now, the end is near. And so we face the final curtain...

Sure, it might seem slightly premature writing the obituary for the Australian tilt at the wobbly old gold-plated turd they call the Jules Rimet Trophy before the round of 16 clash with the Italians, but we all know what will happen. Italy will win one-nil. Doesn't matter what you say or what you think, doesn't matter how talented or tenacious our lads are, doesn't matter how polarly dissimilar this Italian side is to any team to wear the Azzurri shirt since their pre-war double world champion team... Italy will win one-nil.

One-nil is programmed so deeply into the Italian footballing psyche, it'll never be overcome, no matter how flashy or prolific their attackers seem to be. It's the sort of birth trauma not even twelve months' auditing by the professionals in the basement of Scientology HQ on Castlereagh St could deprogram. Just like the Germans will turn back into the boring, methodical cunts they've always been the moment they go a goal behind against the Argies, just like England will lead most of the game against Portugal, concede a late equalizer, miss a raft of chances in extra time and lose on penalties after some hereto unbesmirchable character completely duffs his shot (my money's on golden boy Roonaldo to join the annals of penalty shootout antiherodom occupied by the likes of Beckham at Euro 2004, Gareth Southgate at France 98, David Batty at Euro 96, Chris Waddle and Psycho Pearce at Italia 90...) Italy will pinch a goal early under dubious circumstances, get every motherfucker behind the ball, and grind one out like a grog-bog on a hungover morning-after - and it'll be just as ugly, probably. Judging from this tournament in general and last night in particular, it's in fashion again - one-nil is back, folks. Catenaccio is the new black.


I SEE RED (REPEAT X4)
What else. Ah yeah. Speaking of fashion, we've lost the worst fucking kit in Christendom, with the council worker fluoro polo shirts of the dirty diving Dutchmen getting them approximately nowhere against the Portuguese in their game overnight. They weren't helped by the fact they forgot to actually bring the high-vis gear and had to wear their changed strip which made them look like the guys who couldn't make the France B team. They proceeded to play the same way, i.e. badly, as the guys who can't make France B apparently get to play for the French first team. For the neutrals, there was a delightful soupcon of violence and stupidity to proceedings, with more axe-work than the Stihl Timbersports Series and more yellows than a crash-riddled NASCAR demo-derby. The result was the bizarre sight of sent-off players from either team sitting in the dugout together making small talk like randoms waiting for a bus.






















Nuno Valente of Portugal (yeah, that lot of jokers we said were no fuckin' chance of progressing... good thing we're not dependent on credibility for ratings) offers Arjen Robben (France B) an unsolicited character reference. This image is unique in that it offers the only photographic proof that Robben was actually present on the pitch in last night's game. Jesus suffering fuck, the bastard was more anonymous than that chick who wrote The Bride Stripped Bare.

Of course, we all hope that there won't be a repeat of this sort of ugly footbrawl at this tournament, and we can get back to watching the goals accumulate rather than the reds.

Then again, judging by the way the Italians dealt with playing ten-on-nine against the Seppos...

BRING THAT SHIT ON.

Rino Gattuso, I'm looking at you. Yeah, monkey boy. You with the head like a dunny brush. Big Dukes said your mum was uglier than Gorden Tallis. And he'd know, cos he gave her one.


The Doctor is OUT.