Our boys!

Got nothing funny to say. There is nothing funny about the redemption of Diego. If I die, he gets it all. He's earned it.

Not a single goddam bar in this entire city showed the Australia-Croatia game. Bloody Brasil-Japon everywhere. Brasil-Japon. Brasil-Japon. God. I was even willing to go sit at one of those muchacho bars where the likelihood of me being mistaken for a prostitute (or similar) was high to bloody certain.

Instead I sat at this computer, alone, desperately trying to click on to any online radio station that would broadcast it to me. I clicked and I clicked and I clicked. And I cried. And then I got some pissweak FIFA 'live update' thing which made a crowd cheering noise everytime anyone scored a goal in any game. And I'd scream 'Who! Who??'

Then I called my football faithful parentals and they kindly placed the phone next to the radio so I could listen. The static to understandable commentary ratio was about 65:35 but, you know, beggars and choosers. Had the one working speaker (result of my persistent failure to remember to keep gripping things) uncomfortably close to my ear and a little mic to keep telling Dad, yeah, yeah, yeah, I can hear. Is Simunic still on the field? They should get him off. Get him off the field! My neighbours must be rather confused at the dog-whistle pitched squealing coming from my shoe box quarters.

Have considered appropriating one of my sister's spare sheets as some kind of patriotic banner from her balconey but I have no textas. Otherwise, all of Corderra Barrio de San Pablo would know Australian football has finally reached it's much delayed puberty.

Let's not talk about Brasil. Let's just say, lucky I know some Portuguese.