Thank God it's nearly over. Me Dad was down the pub watching the Spain vs Portugal game with his one and only "mate" the other night and the camera was focused on Ronaldo looking all forlorn at the end, as he never even got to take his penalty. Me Dad's mate looked at him and said "you know what, you remind me of him you do." Impressed, me Dad says "why 'cos I'm good looking, got a fit body and all the women fancy me?" His mate said "No, 'cos you're a smarmy twat." Woof!

They're offering me Dad £50 off his next bill for everyone of his mates that he gets to sign up to them. So he's asked me to issue the following statement on his behalf: "Virgin Media are not shit, they are fucking ace actually, and have never, ever, let me down. What that Branson bloke wouldn't do for you isn't worth writing down. Won't hear a word said against the nice bewhiskered gentleman. Great bloke, great company. Not at all a complete waste of tossing, bastard, fucking cyberspace. That's some other lot, the ones that get Ruby Wax to advertise on the telly for them. They really are shite. Abject shite. Don't know their arses from a hole in the ground them, not like Richard." The End. He doesn't usually call him Richard. It's Dick normally, that's how close they are. Does anyone know what a supercillious twat is by the way? It sounds very important, and Dick is one apparently. So there. I might send him an engraved pooh on a plint...

What's the fucking point of bluebottles eh? There's one in the lounge right now and it's doing my fuckin swede in with it's irritaing buzzing shit. I mean I know we are supposed to love all God's creatures and all that, and I'm sure that they are supposed to do a very important job in the eco-chain or something. Like James Milner. He has a job to do, he just choses not to do it and runs (or in the case of bluebottles flies) around going nowhere and banging his head against the window. Watch out once the warm weather finally comes, if you leave the back door open for more than thirty seconds you'll end up with James Milner running around your kitchen like a demented I don't know what before he regurgitates his lunch of cow shit, or whatever it is they eat, up onto your bacon sandwich. The dirty get. That's what they do you know, I'm not mucking about. They can eat up to eighty four times there own body weight in regurgitated shit every half hour y...

Hart: shite, doesn't inspire confidence, they'd clearly sussed out that he is poor clearing back passes under a bit of pressure. Cole: really shite. Johnson: good going forward, gets him into trouble defensively sometimes though. Terry & Lescott: both solid at the back. Young: complete shite. Milner: consistently pure abject shite, set up Johnson's chance in the first half only by virtue of a twice deflected shite cross. Wants shooting. I'll do it happily. Parker: out of his depth shite, OK he tried hard, but he simply isn't international standard. Gerrard: old shite, gets more shite as he gets older. Wellbeck: was he playing? The lazy shite. Rooney: fat useless over-rated shite, fails to deliver yet again, throw in string of "he's world class, this was another one off like the last one in the World Cup - that wasn't his fault either, he'll be better next time" excuses. Woy, tactical genius he is, he presumably sees things in Milner that th...

Watching the highlights of Euro 2012 last night, I found myself wondering "what the fuck is this intro all about?" Is this a sneak preview of the Olympic opening ceremony? And are they supposed to be subbuteo players or what? And has anyone else thought is that Roy Hodgson or Windy Miller? And if it is the new England manager does that mean that Roy Hodgson is tupping Mrs Honeycomb? I bet that the Sun would love to get hold of the pictures of that, with John Terry lurking in the background waiting for his turn. And is James Milner actually the illegitimate son of a Roy Hodgson/Mrs Honeycomb "dalliance" that poor old Windy Miller thinks is his, and that there was just a bit of a spelling mistake at the register office? And does that explain why Roy keeps picking his bastard son to play for England even though he's total shite? Just call me Poirot the Wonderdog. Pooh count: three, two James Milners and a John Barnes.

No it wasn't. Milner is shit, as per my previous review, and shouldn't have even been on the plane out there let alone in the bleedin starting 11. Instead of saying "what a great substitution by Roy" they should have been saying "what the fuck is Milner doing on the pitch, he's shit." And another thing: "great tackle back there by Glen Johnson" really should have been "what the fuck was Johnson doing there, he was miles out of position the useless tosser, it's a good job that he can run a bit faster than that old bloke the Swedes had on the ball, for all his rednose shitness, or we'd have been right royally fucked up a fucking bastard gum tree, Gary." Ratings - Hart: shit with gloves on; Johnson: a heavily tattooed shit; Terry: OK, but still a racist shit; Lescott: reverted to type, shit; Cole: fast, but shit; Milner, you have to hand it to him, his shitness managed to plunge to new depths that you can normally only go to in a...

I though that this would be an opportune time to rate this evening's England players after a less than inspiring 1-1 stalemate with the Frogs: Hart 6/10, a bit shit; A Cole 6/10, also quite shit; G Johnson 4/10 really quite appallingly impressively shit; J Terry 5/10 racist shit; J Lescott 8/10 quite good actually; S Gerrard 5/10 Kopite rednose bull in a China shop shit; S Parker 5/10 out of his depth shit; J Milner 2/10 abject fuckin shite shit, so far out of his depth he was drowning in shit; OxyWotsit 6/10 only a bit shit; D Wellbeck 6/10 OK with a bit of shit mixed in with it; A Young 6/10 shit off a shovel. A pooh on a plinth is on it's way to Kiev with Mr Milner's name on it.