The Cup of Life.

Well, after four long glorious years, the basketball programmes will be cut mercilessly short by the imminent World Cup matches. All 64 of them on 12 interactive channels.

But then again, is it not a good thing? To savour the glorious taste of victory, to see sights never seen before, to almost smell the turf, the sweat and the bodies of men willing to sacrifice their pristine starched jerseys for their country? To see the joy, the absolute happiness, the exquisite delicacy that scoring a goal can be. Beautiful, yet savage, festooned with history and ordained with pride, besotted with admirers and blatantly upheld by commercialism, the game of football knows so many faces, is spoken of in so many different languages, all united beneath that orb of cowhide, stitched with loving care, and adorned with blazing colours reminiscent of the physical emancipation of testosterone.



To be in the crowd, to see, feel, breathe and scream as one, as they witness the passage of this orb of glory, weaving through the forest of legs, neatly slipping past the outstretched, gloved digits of a flailing player, to nestle deeply within the corner of an oblong space enshrouded with netting.

Indeed these are great times to behold.

Enjoy.