Schadenfreude

Bert arrived back from the Fatherland looking very despondent. He packed away his whistle, his scarf and his spiked helmet, for another four years. “Ach vell,” he pondered, “Rome voz not in a day gebuilt.”

I was quite upset myself, as I wanted Germany to be stuffed by England, not by Italy. But I put aside all personal animosity and cooked Bert a delicious meal of Italian meatballs with spaghetti, panini, parmesan cheese, fava beans and a nice little Chianti. The soul of sensitivity, I put on a CD of Pavarotti singing “Vinceró” and wore an Armani dress, Prada shoes and Versace perfume.

Bert ate in teutonic silence. “Some Neapolitan icecream for dessert?” I suggested brightly, “Some Tiramisu? Panna Cotta? Zabaglione? or just an expresso?”

O o o O o o O

So, it’s France v Italy for the World Cup final on Sunday. Much as I admire the Italians’ footwork, not to mention their menswear and leather accessories, I’m afraid I’ve got to support France, for old time’s sake. Many years walking the streets in the City of Lights have endeared me to the old place, even if it is a bit of a dog’s breakfast these days. And the French team almost feel like our own boys, when you count how many of them play in the English Premiership. Thank God we sent Barthez back to Marseille though. What a butterfingers.

Zinedine Zidane is exactly the sort of man I was talking about the other day. Naturally masterful. Did you see him take that penalty against Portugal? Cool, calm, collected, he looked like he was just going to B&Q to buy a box of spanners. That’s my kind of man. The strong, silent type (well let’s face it he wouldn’t get a word in anyway with me). It is rumoured that Madame Zidane wears the pantalon at home. Now isn’t that proof enough that a man who is bien dans sa peau doesn’t need to throw his weight around on the domestic front? I’ll bet Zizou gets his pinny on and gets on with peeling the spuds whenever he is asked. Ooh that’s an erotic image. There’s nothing that gives a girl a frisson like the sight of a man doing domestic tasks. (Do you think that will work, girls?)