The team Fústar rounded-up for this, the blogosphere's most entertaining kick-about, has played nothing short of a blinder. Reportage, meditations and nostalgia; oh, this lot have every position covered, and they write like Real Naturals to boot. But it's late in the day now, and though they may not be showing it yet, they might well appreciate a pair of young, fresh legs. And that's, er, that's where I come in.

Last month, during the Snooker, I developed a fondness for the interiors of the nation's betting offices. Dens of dejection they are, playing host, in equal measure, to manifestations of despair, resignation and pathos. Resignation, in the collective crunch of defeat that follows the end of every horse race, trailed closely by the glance of each patron at his (always his) nearest bin, and, after brief deliberation, attempts to launch the balled-up betting slips into said bin. Never successful, these attempts. Despair, in the man who picks these slips up and brings them to the bookmaker to inspect, just in case. Pathos, in the face of the man who, having no more litter to leaf through, leaves the room, knowing (full well) that tomorrow will (not) be better.

A digression from football, this post, I grant you, but I'm still only getting a feel for the ball and for the (newly laid?) surface here. It's all by way of saying, really, that I've been betting on Euro 2008, almost every day, almost 100% unsuccessfully, and that I'm going to be telling you all about it.

Tomorrow will be better.