Here Comes The Sun

Pundit yearns for Game 39

Johnny Pundit: On me 'ead sun

Fans queue for Game 39

Scudamore: Nice tan

Funny old thing, Football. For instance, the Premier League's brilliant idea. Why shouldn't we play some of our big games abroad? My sun tan needs a top-up.

Lazily stroking balls

But of course it's same old England — no room for innovation! After all, which would you choose — lounging in the press box of some sun-kissed semi-paradise, sipping cocktails while the top names lazily stroke a ball upfield; or the usual Tuesday night in Leicester, the rain coming down in sheets, and barely a shot on goal after ninety minutes?

Keeping the sun for themselves

Of course FIFA are against it: they just want to keep all the sun for themselves. They resent us because we haven't been invaded for a thousand years. And why? Because we're all so splendidly irritated by the weather, we make damn good fighters. Your Spaniard and your Italian and your Frenchman, they don't fight so well — too content, y'see. Having too much fun. It's no coincidence there's no English word for 'joie de vivre'.

Rotting fans

There's the usual rot about the fans. What's that bunch of trainspotters got to do with it? There they all sit, with their thermos flasks and their ill-advised woolly hats and their widespread ignorance, putting the world to rights before going back Monday morning to sell forks, or wash other people's bottoms, or catalogue their own toenail clippings, or whatever they spend their feeble talents on when they're not telling professionally trained and experienced managers how to run the team.

Hacking away

What do fans know about football? What about us poor old pundits in the trenches of football commentary, come rain and shine (but mostly come rain)? Never a thought for us, is there? And I'd just got my passport renewed, too, blast it. Daresay 'public opinion', that uninformed beast, will prevail again. Hell's teeth, it's been a bad week: I can't even smoke the old pipe in 'The Mixed Metaphor' any more, either.

Scudamore, stick to your guns! I can taste the Margerhitas now!

Johnny Pundit