Samba Pa Ti

Wouldn't normally do this: I'm a bit out of my comfort zone with this evening's soundtrack. It's more in the realm of Cheech and Chong than my usual playlist. However, the tune appeals to my current mindset having had a South American sporting couple of hours. I also sneaked a quick audio-sugar-rush to Rod Argent's fine song covered by the artist of the title: a guitarist who has fine claim to be ranked alongside the best.  And thence to 'Low Rider' by War: I have attention deficit disorder or something! Or I am completely mad.

The first game of the Confederations Cup has just ended, with Brazil winning against Japan reasonably convincingly, although the Japanese had a commendable bite to their attitude. I hope Mexico, Spain and Italy add to the top end of the game. As a Scouse fan I trust Suarez can add a bit of bite for Uruguay.

But Tahiti?  Really?  What is the point of that?  Blatter, Platini and their cronies have gone right off the deep end and now appear to be log-canoeing to retirement.

However, my real cause for complaint this evening is the shocking use of technology used in football these days. It'll be a day to count hens' teeth if I ever have anything to crow about, and that is a poultry connection: doubly paltry, in fact.

I have a volume switch on my televisual receiving device, thank goodness. I had hope that goal-line cameras might bring football away from the age of the pig's-bladder, I had not anticipated that the BBC would refuse to employ commentary-line management. The drivelling half-wit being used to call the names tonight would benefit from being employed by ITV.  He makes Tyldesley sound like a brain surgeon: ten minutes of uncut facts followed by five minutes of advertisements for future sporting events. This is the reason no-one watches ITV when there is a choice, and Her Majesty's broadcasters have decided to follow suit. Bring back Motty; even though he was irritating he at least knew a bit about the beautiful game.

Having this nonsense spend what felt like days telling me how much Neymar was in a class of his own - until he joins Barcelona when, apparently, he will be in a small class just below that populated by Messi - this cretin plundered several ITV gambits through a largely uninspiring second half only to finish with the comment that 'the Samba Party has started'.  Cue sound of Old Brize visiting several gutters to replenish the list of suggested quotes for sports commentators.

Is it just me?  Please, surely it is not just me.  Anyway, Carlos Santana on guitar, 'She's Not There' infiltrating  from The Zombies original, Eric Burdon from The Animals doing  'Low Rider', and I am now communing with George Clinton to get some P-Funk. Message to my boys - low rider does not mean wearing your trousers at half-mast. Listen to big George - the rule round here is you got to wear your sunglasses.