Je ne parle pas anglais!

In a stunning finale of overflow mathematics, the scoreline screamed an amazing FRA 2 - 1 ENG. I, and a few comrade comedians, jabbed our fists, made crazy faces and howled and howled in orgasmic ecstacy.

And only moments ago, I was totally pissed. The first half had been exciting, Scholes and Beckham relentlessly pushing the bored black French fesses, and Pires and Zidane bursting shocks in the English arses. Till that amazing header hung blue heads in a zap.. and all I waited desperately for was halftime.

During which I imagined the air at the French camp would be full of curses, temper, water, a quite monologue, rethinking, pumping, breathing. I couldn't have been right, for I didn't see what came out of the break! Post-halftime, I was bored with the same moves, the same formations, and no innovation at all. Henry was a misery without help from the far left, where Lizarazu was a mess. Everyone seemed too edgy to try individually, and it became too easy to predict what Zidane would do when he got back the ball on every third pass. Time jerked on, tension mounted of course, the French got impatient, moved faster, kicked around, elbowed around, frustrating the English and yet assuring them they would try nothing else, but sink in with a lot of splashing. The English laid back full strength behind the halfline, the French attacked this way and this way and that way and this way, and then the occasional quick counter-run would pinch some more holes in the French cheeks. When finally on one of such runs, a desperate challenge saw Beckham smirking on the penalty spot, the French stopped looking altogether, and the English chorus reached deafening levels of melody.

It was then that the first of the unthinkables happened. Beckham blotched, a random predictive judgement by Barthez but one which visually changed the mood of the game. Time never stopped, though, even though many hopeful hearts did. Past fulltime, the match now entered 3 minutes of injury time.

The usual freekick outside the D, Zidane comes up with a stunning curve to the top left corner of the English goal, mouths fall, some look up and smile, some blush and go hoarse on the vocals, some horny guys like me think, what if another one happens now? Half a minute later, Zidane moves to the far left and suddenly rolls a brilliant play which ends with Henry with the ball, defenders running behind, goalie desperate, either Henry finishes past him or he attacks his leg. Fate chooses the latter, Zidane looks at the penalty spot, does a jiggle, effortlessly places it on the left corner of the net, the whites turned white, mouths falling, eyes dropping out, throats dry, while "I, and a few comrade comedians, jab our fists, make crazy faces and howl and howl in orgasmic ecstacy".