Bloody Daniel Agger. I wanted to get on that pitch and kick him in the nuts after what he did to our little Jack. I was out of my seat seething and shouting at the bastard. Yes okay, so maybe I was on the bench, but we can't all be in the team and I was begging Roy to sub me on for a bit of prompt retribution, when I began to consider it a little bit more cool headedly.
30 into 23 won't go, we all know that there's 8 left over and I don't intend to be one of those left out when our leader Roy starts to whittle down the numbers. So I began to think. Here I am, a midfield dynamo with a slight propensity for living it large and "off the ball incidents", okay violent play if you insist, and there's a lot of competition for that area of the pitch. Now in the cold light of day, I can see that Jack's unfortunate injury and Theo's cruciate problem are opening the door for me, so I'm not too downhearted, even though the gaffer didn't even give me five minutes on the hallowed turf.
Of course, it wasn't until the next morning in bed in the Wembley Hilton when my latest squeeze grabbed me by the JT and said I had better behave myself in Brazil that I realised Jack had fractured his tootsie and I was practically on the plane.
Wohooo! There's nothing like a bit of team spirit.