Yes sir!

For a few hours I went comparatively football mental. Then I fell asleep.

What was Zidane thinking about before he headbutted Mattadoodaa in the heart? It seemed that the Italian had suggested Zidane try to pierce a hole through his ribs if he thinks he's hard enough. Turns out Mattahoohaa is the pussy. He couldn't even not fall down.

My brother told me it has become the ultimate watercooler event. No shit, I just called him and I asked him about Zidane before I asked how he was. Really, I was shocked. Zidane was ten minutes away from being tattooed into the Guiness book of Records as "Most Impressive Baldy But Memorable-Looking International Player Ever". Now they've had to abandon it because he chose a tragic fate. That of the constantly tortured and inventively violent baldy one who you now don't trust with your kids. Such rage boiling at the surface. What could the Italian have said to rile someone so close to International Deism?

No no. I can't be bothered with any more attempts. I hear the jokes are already old.

I had an expensive but promising visit to a doctor today to try to reclaim ownership of my stomach. Really. It's become my master. I just blithely lie around waiting for some deeply unpleasant curdling in my lower regions and it doesn't matter what I'm doing, I'm hauling my ass to the nearest squattable arena to deposit some disappointingly trifling offering to the plumbing.

So much pain, so little poo.

Why does my stomach want this of me? I'd give it whatever it wants. But this?

But I (and Effie, she suffers the same fate) were rewarded by a handsome and recommended doctor. He prodded my stomach until it audibly told him to fetch him his slippers and he smiled and diagnosed the problem with more words than follows:

"Bacteria. Bad food."

He rummaged around in a place where only sounds could be heard and then he appeared with oversized polythene. Pills. Colourful pills. Some shaped like capsules. Some shaped like caplets. Some shaped like small tractors.

My first dose involved a valium and half an hour's vocal therapy to open the throat to allow such multi-coloured toolbox spares to pass almost freely through my recently-conquered system.

Wow, I was planning to start a dissertation on here with the working title of "A comparative study of both Eastern and Western traditions of philosophical thought based on sparse casual readings, vague memories and panicked first impressions."

But then I spent ages writing about football and my master and lost the power to begin transcribing my notes. What to do. Maybe next time.

So July 30th 2006 will be a nice pleasant day in London. The sun will be shining (appropriately), the birds (despite probably having forgotten how to) will be singing and I will be jetlagged, bag-laden and freaked out. But then I will play thumb wars with my big bro and go talk to some funny strange English people and it will all be ok.