May we now all rise and sing the eternal school hymn: "Attack. Attack. Attack Attack Attack!"

We dwell amid pinheaded weasels who know only timid, the generic and the abacus.

Footballers today are forced to conform to a bodily aesthetic that in its rigidity and uniformity makes fashion models look as varied as snowflakes. This wasn't always so. Up until the 1980s most teams in all divisions had a couple of fat ones, a couple of little ones, at least one bandy one, one completely covered in hair, two weaklings and a chap with no neck. This was an era when you didn't need names on the backs of shirts in order to tell who's who, you could clearly identify them with your eyes half shut from the other side of the pitch.

I really hate those Internet freaks who take each thirty minute bundle of joy and turn it into a cult game of Where's Wally.

To be extraordinarily happy and to have no concern for money drives some people nuts.

May we now all rise and sing the eternal school hymn: "Attack. Attack. Attack Attack Attack!"

International friendly games are not worth the lives of the silk worms who perish to make the pennants. They do not even have the philanthropic excuse that softens the otherwise unendurable tedium of testimonial matches. Quite simply, they are rotten games staged to pick the public's pocket, tiresome red tape left over from an era when nations and players were still insular and therefore curious about each other's potential.