On A Whinge And a Prayer

What shall we do with Fabio Capello when he gets back, eh?

Put him in the stocks and throw carbonara sauce at him? Steal his glasses and make him wear crappity NHS jobs from the 1980s? Remove his pointy fingers and mount them on spikes whilst shouting 'How about that for a Capello Index?'

I've heard people saying crap like 'He's just putting out a McClaren team!' Well, yes, maybe, only the lads Cap picked seemed to get us to the finals of a major tournament with barely a hiccup. And not a brolly in sight.

I've heard people saying he shouldn't be stalling on a new contract. Christ knows, every working person in football, especially those that have a proven track record, know how to apply a bit of a leverage to a contract. And any road, if the man does a good job, he can walk away with my blessing, if no one else's.

I've heard bleating about picking Ledley King from people who were right chuffed the young crock was on the plane. I've heard the decision to play Green roundly poo-pooed even though Green was excellent against Mexico and James wasn't fit.

I mean I'm not one to back off from sticking the boot in, but I'm not exactly why I'd be lacing up my Doc Martens with the steel toecaps in at the moment.

There are reasons for criticism. Playing Milner was clearly an error but after half an hour the lad was back on the bench. Wright-Phillips is a liability a lot of the time. Joe Cole will have to come into things. But really, do we need this half-cocked character assassination from a bunch of beer-swilling numpties as they reel from stadium to hotel bar? (That's the journos, not the fans)

England have played one game of football. They looked ordinary. That's partly because they are ordinary. It's like ordering a burger and complaining cos all you got was a meat patty in a bap. If you think we're exceptional then you'll be amongst those people who stood up and roared when our saviour, a nice pipecleaner of a man with a reasonable first touch, got up off the bench for the last ten minutes.

I've talked up our chances cos I don't see the bloody point of being pessimistic when our team's got themselves to the World Cup without a single nail bitten or sphincter tightened. Besides which, I support Middlesbrough FC, so I spend the rest of the sodding year doing me best Eeyore impression.

But I'm not daft enough to think that we'll win it without a big dose of luck, and some truly inspirational stuff from Rooney and/or Gerrard. Only shameless jackass hacks and bullet-headed bootboys believe we have some sort of divine right to bag a trophy.

Before long, we'll have the usual guff about how the Premier League is the best league in the world and yet the national team still disappoints, quickly followed by fingers of blame gesturing towards the selfish foreigners who pollute our game.

But the English squad is made up of players from that very top-flight and if there are any sparkling English diamonds pissing about in second elevens up and down the country then I haven't seen them.

And football is relentlessly subjective. Villa fans can't believe Ashley Young's at home. Brum finds despair that Roger Johnson didn't even get mentioned. And if I hear one more person express shock that Gareth Bale didn't get the nod, I'm going to do something drastic and, I dunno, drink cider. He's Welsh, for God's sake!

But then there are swathes of ugly lifeless tree plantations being grown up and down the hillsides of Europe in order that eighty gazillion square inches of newspaper can be pumped out onto our streets every morning - and there's only so much real stuff can go in them before we get onto reams and reams of tedious speculation.

And largely, that boils down to either idle malice in the direction of people we used to laud to the pigging skies, be that an errant footballer or some secret cellulite, or some plastic-faced publicity-junkie with a life with about as much depth as Norfolk.

But really, people, what the hell cause have we got to start pinging arrows in the direction of the manager? Or even making Rob Green effigies in the same way that many unbelievably dense people did in the direction of St. David of Beckingham in 1998?

It's not even that it's incomprehensible that folk get wound up. We all bloody do. But it happens every time, and often before there's any need to stick photos of your favourite letdowns on the pub dartboard.

I expect Marcello Lippi is getting similar short shrift from the baying hounds of the Italian press who can idly forget that his team are the World Champions.

But me, I'm winding my neck in till we finally 'crash out' - which is the official way in which we exit tournaments - and I'm going to try and enjoy the tournament, which ain't that easy when there's more moaners around you than your average swingers' party.

Otherwise all this whingeing and whining is going to sound like so many vuvuzelas.