Messy

Once again, Croatia have advanced in a major tournament while Brazil have shafted themselves with their own indomitable sense of entitlement.

In 1990, England had lamented 24 years of hurt, which in terms of absent World Cup glory is exactly where Brazil are right now. Mind you, they have a back catalogue of five trophies to lube up and ease back onto (probably best not to opt for one of the pointier Jules Rimets, though).

I do however rather like Croatia, who are mundanely pisspoor, and who just play for penalties. It evokes fond memories of Red Star Belgrade sticking it up UEFA’s poncing elite to snag the European Cup. At least they are savvy enough to stick to the knitting in the comfortable knowledge that world football superpowers end up imploding if they don’t have a free pass to glory.

That’s a metaphor for life, right there.

Fast forward to the second quarter-final – or more appropriately the first semi, which was my own, as the Argies tanked a two-goal lead and appeared clueless in the face of route one long balls.

Sam Allardyce must have been spinning in the grave of his infertile creative cortex.

As for the match, it was as inevitable as death and taxes that the Argies would turn nasty once the Dutch had capped it with some goals, and after the former had fannied about trying to run down the clock.

Thank God the footie fascists ultimately won the penalties, or they might have cried themselves to death.

The ref – who inexplicably added on 10 minutes of extra time – booked about fifteen people, including two who weren’t even playing. I’m going to check with my wife just to make sure I’m not suspended for the semi-final.

It doesn’t matter who goes on to win the World Cup. The whole shebang is a rank shambles. Or a sham that rankles.

Well, one of the two, or possibly both.

Conceived out of a thunderstorm of bungs, built on the corpses of migrants, and contested by inveterate posers.

Messy.

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