I've still not seen any more.

I consider this a personal tragedy.

I'm going to pack this in.

So, anyway, thanks everyone.
Don't touch me.

England v Sweden

You may have noticed I’ve shied away from match report-style postings thus far – and there’s a few reasons for that.

• You’re well catered for elsewhere.

• I really haven't got the time.

• The people actually reading this thing (hello Graeme, hello dad) are almost certainly seeing more games than I am at the moment, so they don’t need me telling them who took a shy.

Anyway, having said all that … this is one. Sort of.

I’m struggling to recognise the England v Sweden game in some of the reports I’ve read and heard in the last 24 hours (“It’s all coming together for England!” Clive Tyldsley), so I thought I’d bash out my own greatly condensed take on it, just for the record.

Much was made before the match of Wayne Rooney’s first start of the tournament – and he brought plenty of industry and aggression to the forward line, a ballsy performance you somehow never quite believe is lurking within Owen or Crouch.

However, his lack of football in recent weeks was only too obvious in the dull edge to his usually razor-sharp game, as he found defenders robbing him of the ball probably far more frequently than he can ever remember. By the time he was substituted, regardless of what he thought of that decision, he was blowing hard.

Cole's opener for England was a thrilling and daring piece of skill. Alexandersson's headed clearance came to the Chelsea midfielder at an angle to the penalty area a good 35 yards out. Cole took the ball on his chest … I tell a lie, he almost pushed the ball into perfect position with his chest … and cracked a looping right-foot volley over Isaksson and in off his left post. The Swede had wandered a little far from his line, yes – but this was a goal of such glorious execution that he could have had Robinson alongside him and still not saved it.

While England controlled most of the first half, the second forty-five was a different story entirely. Sweden, in time-honoured fashion, harassed and unsettled England, particularly from corner kicks.

Linderoth's delivery from the left certainly had a dramatic and unnerving effect on the English defence. One such delivery found its way from Larsson’s head to safety only via Carragher’s arm, Robinson and the bar. Another saw Teddy Lukic find himself in space beyond reason and sense, only to again hit the woodwork.

So, when Sweden duly equalised, it was both merited and thoroughly, shamefully predictable.

Again, Linderoth delivered his corner to the near post, where Allback was advancing towards the flight of the ball, sauntering past Crouch and Beckham to rise, completely unchallenged, for a deft header which sent the ball beyond Robinson.

Gerrard arrived for Rooney to shore up the midfield where, despite Hargreaves’ encouraging shift, they were inferior to Sweden's determined running – with Beckham again posted missing.

He soon showed his attacking worth to a coach in possession of only one fully-fit striker he is actually willing to allow on the park; getting himself on the end of a lovely Joe Cole cross to head home from six yards.

Sweden, though, were not finished and - amid, frankly, comic scenes in the England defence - Larsson stabbed home.

Few England supporters will complain about their position in the tournament – in the last 16, with a match against the unfancied Ecuador between them and the quarter finals. However, there has been a distinct lack of style in their play - and a dearth of finesse and wit in their tactics - that makes it difficult for a neutral to say they hold much interest in seeing them progress, in this fashion at least.

Boing boing, bouncy bouncy

With the pitches so dry - and the regulation size five apparently swapped for one of those balloon-like flyers you used to find alongside bamboo-cane fishing nets in corner shops – there's been some pretty odd bounces out there … just ask Yoshikatsu Kawaguchi.

Still, I think I might have found a use for Ronaldo. Roll the pitch with him.

Where was I?

A novel experience, this - a day when I actually get to watch some live football.

While I realised the early afternoon games were always going to be a bit of a problem during the week, I've not been away from work early enough this week to catch even the final whistle of any of the 5pm matches. Let's not even start on the fact I've only made it home in time for kick-off in one of the late games.

It all makes for an excellent World Cup blog, I'm sure you'll agree. I'll be writing to FIFA to encourage all future tournaments to be held in crazy timezones.

Anyway - back to the matter in hand.

I may well be alone in this, but I still believe Japan are a team. Not a team that's likely to make it into the knockout stages, but a team nevertheless.

To listen to some, they are no more than lambs to the slaughter; but, I don't think they are without quality. Aside from a good attitude across the team, generally, Alex has impressed me. They also have a half-decent goalkeeper and, in Nakamura, a lovely ball player.

Certainly, they lack something up front. There's nobody with the power to hold the ball up, so everything has to be quick and, very often, long range.

However, I admire the way they try to play the game and I think there's a good chance they could take points off Croatia this afternoon. At least until the 83rd minute.

Allo allo

A crucial moment in the tournament – can I spend any length of time thinking about France's own Dad's Army without segueing into British airmen and the Fallen Madonna with ze Big Boobies? Let's hope so.

Anyway. Good moaning.

Raymond Domenech has clearly decided that Zinedine Zidane and the rest of the old guard can achieve more with their undoubted skill than the next generation of French players can with skill and fitness combined.

It's not an idea entirely without merit – but the suspicion remains that history has already proven him wrong in 2002 and 2004, when France meekly surrendered their twin titles with little resistance. I'm sure you can all see what I did there.

Perhaps the problem could be that many in this French squad feel that they have nothing to prove? Marcel Desailly certainly said as much when the roof came crashing down around Les Bleus in Seoul four years ago.

Then, as in 2004, France were moody, disjointed and barely a shadow of their former selves. Ominously, this time around, things are again far from harmonious.

Gregory Coupet is in the huff and David Trezeguet isn't far behind him. Thierry Henry, allegedly, doesn't enjoy Zidane's influence and standing in the squad.

Jean-Alain Boumsong is celebrating absolutely wretched seasons at Rangers and Newcastle by filling the berth you might reasonably have expected go to Phillipe Mexes. Ludovic Giuly, meanwhile, is on his holidays – passed over even as a stand-in in favour of the powerfully-average Sidney Govou.

As much as I hope everything I've just said means nothing and the French squad can cast aside their differences and egos to mount a healf-decent challenge (and I certainly wouldn't bet against it) it really is very much hope rather than expectation.

Big in Japan

Accepted knowledge is that Japan doesn't have the physical strength to make any kind of impact at this World Cup. Like alsatian-faced, alsatian-named pop prick Prince, they're almost too wee.

Now, while there's probably an element of truth in that, I wonder whether the stark contrast between Zico's side and their hulking opponents in today's Group F opener could even work to their advantage.

Australia has a fine tradition of playing - well, let's be honest - hammer-throwers.

For all the coach's pedigree, any team that has given caps to the decidedly agricultural Kevin Muscat is unlikely to find subtle, sexy, football comes naturally – a suspicion a typically x-rated performance against the Netherlands in the warm-ups would seem to confirm.

Their defence is, from what I've seen of it, abysmal. Again, hardly surprising when you consider one of its number, Craig Moore, spent much of the last year pulling off a deception of Derren Brown proportions in making the rest of the Newcastle back line look like footballers.

Both teams will probably pack the midfield – the Australians to try and throttle the game, the Japanese because they are pretty shoddy everywhere else.

If they both play to form, the Japanese midfield will try and play possession, moving the ball around quickly. Expect to see them go forward with two touches in midfield, then cut in or play a quick one-two on the angle … only to be hammered into the ground like a tent peg by an enthusiastic young man with short hair.

Such brutal tactics could, however, prove to be the Socceroos' undoing. While Japan can be outmuscled in open play – at set pieces, they have the quality to embarrass the Australians and players like Shunsuke Nakamura will relish free kicks around the box.

Rio's World Cup Wind-ups

Frankly, I didn't think it was possible to dislike Ferdinand more, but how wrong I was.

The problem with the show, as far as I could see … okay, the main problem, was that the success of hilarious hidden-camera wind-up japery hinges upon issues of empathy and behaviour.

To put it bluntly, your victim needs to have normal self-esteem. Premiership stars, however, are impervious – shielded by their fame and money.

Thus we get Peter Crouch laughing at a midget; Wayne Rooney unmoved after killing a little boy's dog, and David James educating an art critic.

At the centre of it all, Ferdinand – silly finger-snapping and spitting fake gangsta patois like a particularly goofy ghetto Jeremy Beadle.

Okay, maybe not the finger-snapping bit.

Who's the poor bastard in the black?

I was going to write about FIFA’s attitude to technology before the start of the tournament but settled, instead, for a moan about Sepp Blatter’s hypocritical attitude to stuffing your pockets full of money in the name of football.

My idea was to look serious and warn darkly of controversy to come because the game’s ruling bodies are either unable or unwilling to get to grips with the modern age.

Well, that’s out the window now that – on day two – we already have our first is it/isn’t it? goal-line stooshie, in tonight’s Argentina v Ivory Coast game; so I’ll just have another rant.

Truth be told, on this occasion, the decision did not make a great deal of difference. Whether 2-1 or 3-1, we saw the first really top class team of this tournament – make no mistake, Ivory Coast are the genuine article and still stand every chance of qualification – wrap up three points in by far the best match of the first five.

Save for setting up a final ten minutes that probably made Jose Pekerman's heart beat quicker than Jonathan King's in a scout hut; there may turn out to be no harm done. Only goal difference and the final table will tell.

It would be hopelessly naive, however, to imagine that will always be the case. Refereeing controversies will be poured over and analysed on every TV station in every country in the world. Matches, qualification, even finals will swing on blown decisions that need never have been.

Personally, I used to have a bit of half-hearted sympathy for the rockist keep-football-pure campaign – no changing the beautiful game and all that. But, in reality, football has always been about embracing change – from the evolution of the match ball to politely asking players to refrain from kicking the tar out of the goalkeeper and smoking at corners.

To go to extremes, it was four years after the founding of the FA that Queen’s Park established the first official rulebook – crossbars, free-kicks, half-time and pitch-markings; the scientific game.

And the current custodians of football haven’t been shy in coming forward – with new interpretations on discipline and every aspect of the game heaping more pressure on the man in luminous yellow. But, somehow - when it comes to actually aiding officials - we’ve stalled.

Can it really be true that cash-rich FIFA and it’s increasingly tyrannical leader cannot manage what even the Pimmsed-up blazers at the Lawn Tennis Association – an organisation, remember, that is unable to countenance something as revolutionary as dyed clothing – can?

The sad irony of this incompetence is that it usually leads to the vilification of referees, despite the fact the majority are extremely good. In pointing out that the referees need technological help, I’m not saying they are poor, so much as that they are human just like the rest of us.

Dorinel Munteanu's disallowed goal at Euro 96, which effectively knocked Romania, is a case in point.

Everyone who saw Munteanu's 25-yard shot in the 1-0 defeat to Bulgaria knows that the goal was good – yet Peter Mikkelsen, the Danish referee, had other ideas, and who could blame him? All he had to go on in that spilt-second were his own two eyes - a quaint notion ditched by the rest of the sporting world decades ago.

In Romania, they're still whining about it. I don’t blame them. Can you imagine how a British team would react?

Meanwhile, in Tokyo in 2002, the ever self-satisfied Blatter lamented the standard of refereeing and warned it must improve in 2006. The world’s FIFA listed referees, in response, said technology would have to be found to assist them.

Well, it hasn't and it won't. And, just like FIFA, I know who I'll blame - but they won't be carrying a whistle.

Substitute you ... for my mum

A strange game – and not one that tells us much we didn’t know already, I suspect.

For all they came into the game in the second half, I wouldn’t rate Paraguay as anything more than competent - and England’s inability to kill them off after a fairly fortuitous start will be a worry to their fans.

A greater worry will be the coach’s mysterious substitutions which, again, look set to be the squad’s mile-wide achilles arse.

Anyway, leaving aside the fact that the welcome return of the giant pitch spider was the most exciting thing to happen during the ninety minutes, here’s how I’d sum it up for the England camp.

Plus: Joe Cole is bloody brilliant.
Minus: He’ll need to be if Ashley Cole keeps playing like a complete fanny behind him.

Plus: Crouch’s work-rate was tremendous.
Minus: That doesn’t really matter when your boss leaves you standing like a fanny in the middle of nowhere.

Plus: Gerrard looked very influential in the first half, if unfit.
Minus: No matter how many excuses you make for him, I can’t begin to imagine how stupid this man must be to still not have worked out that foreign refs won’t stand for you lunging in with both feet. Like a fanny.

England presumes

I missed the first match, which is never a good start.

Work held onto me until not long before the Poland v Ecuador game and I arrived home to find FIFA implementing some sort of new tournament structure, with Clive Tyldesley running through the likely opponents for “England’s quarter-final”.

Must have got a bye. Continental Europe at war with South America, presumably.

Seriously, though, I’ve said enough elsewhere about the complicated ins and outs of Scots supporting England, or not, as the case may be (and people often overlook the sizeable number north of the border who support England over Scotland for ugly reasons relating to another country altogether) but I suspect, for the Braveheart brigade, this sort of thing might just be something to do with it.

I watched the Poles live and caught up with a recording of the first game later and – leaving aside my enjoyment of the Germans attacking with unexpected gay abandon – it was clear both games were large, elaborately-carved, flip-top steins full of good news for Sven’s men.

If you thought the German defence was rotten – and making your centre-halves wear the one pair of shorts is very bad indeed, if you ask me – the Polish central pairing were fascinatingly, spectacularly poor .

Not content with following the Germans’ lead by playing conjoined twins at the heart of their defence, Poland’s medical marvels have picked up a curious habit of attempting to play offside in their own six-yard box – and, furthermore, appear to be labouring under the misconception that they are not allowed to jump when the ball is sailing an inch over their heads.

It was a miserable, maddening performance for those of us with a soft spot for the Poles, with Zurawski – a striker with movement and a change of pace capable of troubling most defences – continually forced wide and deep to collect, only to find his midfield colleagues resolutely unwilling to leave their posts.

In both defences, the failings seem so fundamental I seriously doubt they can be overcome within what remains a very short tournament.

Of course, it is very far from certain Poland will now qualify – but consider Costa Rica’s own defensive frailties and an Ecuadorian team that, regardless of last night’s win, remains deeply ordinary and you begin to see how good things are looking for England before they even kick a ball.

If I was Joe Cole – which, luckily for England and Mrs Cole, I'm not – I’d dream of defences like those. If I was Peter Crouch, I’d still dream of a shirt that fits me, but you get the idea.

I still don’t believe England will win the cup – although a change of coach, and not to Steve McLaren, 18 months ago might have changed my opinion – but maybe they’re closer to that bye into the quarters than I thought.

Out on the Blatter

As you may or may not know, FIFA holds its Congress immediately before the World Cup, with Munich this year’s location. Luckily for David Taylor, qualification isn’t necessary.

Those of you hankering for a return to the days when terraces ran with piss and each stand came fully-furnished with up to two exits and its very own catastrophic fire will be delighted to hear that Wednesday saw the pouting, gorgeous, rabid Sepp Blatter take the platform at FIFA’s five-star hotel and denounce club owners for the "almost pornographic amounts of money" being offered to players.

Football, said Blatter – producing an onion from his inside pocket - is being invaded by "wild-west capitalism".

FIFA’s income in 2005 was £388m. This year, £826m in World Cup television rights will send that figure over £1billion. The federation’s annual expenses are £77m. During the 2002 FIFA presidential election, Somali FA member Farra Ado claimed Blatter attempted to buy his vote for $100,000. Just in case you’re not quite there yet, FIFA is based in Switzerland for, really, no good reason whatsoever.

Keep sticking it to The Man, Sepp.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, toepoke

To me, at least, it’s all quite simple.

For the vast majority of us sane and well-adjusted global citizens, the next month will swell, contort and, finally, explode with among the most fascinating and thrilling days we've ever known.

For 24 years – since almost this exact moment before Spain ’82; that endless day and night immediately preceding the first match and four weeks of unadulterated joy stretching out long into the summer; the moment when my dad came home from work, woke me and gave me my first ball and scarf – I have been utterly besotted with the game of football and have learned, quite rightly, to savour weeks such as those that lie ahead.

I try to be a reasonable sort, but I cannot abide the endless whingeing of the non-footballing fraternity.

People will bleat about too much football on telly – while you and I both know that, while there is anything else on, there’s clearly room for more.

Frankly, I’m still disgusted our networks don’t televise each and every training session – a hangover from a time in the ‘80s when, so complete was my adoration of Kenny Dalglish, Dragan Stojković, then Marco Van Basten, that I was absolutely appalled by the notion that I could conceivably miss some never-to-be-repeated stroke of genius or sublime piece of skill, trotted out between the traffic cones for the benefit of no-one.

I, for one, am ill-prepared to put up with this shrill racket from arrant philistines who don't know fun when they see it.

This, finally, delivers me to my point. I don’t really like blogs, but – since my mate got a new job and left me surrounded by girls with a frankly unhealthy dislike for football for the best part of 12 hours every day – I fear I may do myself an injury if I’m not able to air my petty and ill-informed views somewhere. Here.

Right, so that’s us, then. Last one to spot a Mexican called El Loco is in goal.