1.Three days to kick off. The scent of summer.

'God bless you kid,
and all the things you did'
(The Blue Nile)

It's the strangest thing. Summer has arrived. All the girls are wearing skin and all the boys just looking and grinning. I can feel the heat but not the edge. It's out there I know.

Three days to kick off.

There are flags and shirts everywhere.

I want to believe that this will be a summer of wishes. That a genius will rise to save us all. That this will be 1970 again. That there will be love and family. That we will all say hello world and fuck the bureaucrat.

Round here in Walthamstow, there appears to be a big Portuguese contingent all of a sudden. Where have they come from? I know one: The boy Mario who runs 'The Plough' down the road. I did not expect the Lisbon revolution though. I hope that they all stick around.

Quarter finals at best.

It's been a tough few months for me. Lost my girl and my mind. Stopped the drugs but found the duvet and Bob Dylan. I still cannot get a grip on it yet. I went really mad for a while. I'm not out of the woods yet, not by a long chalk. But there are clues to a new well being.

Yeah, summer has arrived, and I think I can beat the Italian offside trap. All it needs is one killer pass.

I love that song 'Crazy'. Cannot pronounce the singer though.

There were some lads in the pub. 'The Nags and Slags', as me and me mate Paul like to call it. They were shouting the first classic chant of the tournament:

'He's tall. He's red. His feet stick out the bed. Peter Crouch, Peter Crouch.'

That one could run and run. Well at least until Poland.

Rooney! Fergie's going to pull a stroke and call him home.

Rave on Joe Cole I say.

More tomorrow maybe.