A hat-trick of dashed hopes and dreams

WHAT KATI DID NEXT:

WELL, all in all its been a terribly disappointing day.

Today was the day, England played Germany, Stevie Wonder played Glastonbury and a very reliable source presented me with a very good bottle of wine for the birth of my son.

Why, I hear you cry, is that a disappointing day? The potential in that day for great joy is almost unfathomable.

Yes you may think so, but let us examine the evidence.

First let us look to the football. 4 – 1. A mighty score, whichever way you look at it.

Let’s be generous and take into consideration the disallowed goal — by the way, what were the officials doing? Birdwatching? That ball crossed the line so very much it was almost offensive.

However, no they didn’t see it and yes we have to accept that they are the rules, whether we like them or not and we like them very not.

If it had been allowed it may have changed things a little, but the boys in red weren’t really in it were they? One commentator said that it was the most predictable 90 minutes of his life.

I have to agree. So there goes the World Cup.

Then there was the great hope that is the genius of Mr Wonder.

If there are two albums that we should be packing to take to our desert islands, they are “Innervisions” and “Talking Book”.

Stuffed full of the most beautifully crafted songs known to mankind, trust me, download a copy of each, you will not be disappointed.

And yet Stevie chooses to sing “Happy Birthday”. A terrible song. With Michael Eavis no less. Mr Glastonbury cannot sing. Not one note. It was a desperate song, sang with desperation by a desperate man. A car crash of a gig.

He did, in his defence, play “Superstition” and rightly so the place rocketed sky high, plummeting to earth immediately when he followed it with a piece of 80s dross so awful I had never even heard the title before. I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t play “Ebony and Ivory”.

Cut to the opening of a great bottle of red booze. It was in a box, giftwrapped and everything. It tasted of watery Vimto. Awful. I’m off to bed to dream of the possibilities of tomorrow. Goodnight.