Sunday

I wake up really early, and sit in front of the computer for a while catching up on the blog while everyone else sleeps on. At around 10, consciousness finally returns to the entire flat and K's sister heads to the shop to get bacon and bread to make a necessary breakfast. We watch Tim Lovejoy make an arse of himself trying to keep up with the always-brilliant wit of Vic and Bob on Something for the Weekend before K and I reluctantly make our usual trip down the Passage to Sainsbury's.

It's hot, but the cool of the supermarket air con is welcoming despite the place being full of terrible inconsiderate bastards also doing their shopping. Afterwards we consider lugging our cargo on the bus as we normally would, but the traffic situation is not encouraging and we trudge back up the Passage again. We get back to the house just in time for me to join the British Grand Prix at around the mid-point, by which time any intrigue there might have been (Vettel off at turn one! Drops ten places!) is long gone and Mark Webber strolls to a decent victory at Silverstone. As much as I want to be excited by Formula One, the old rule still applies: the only bits you need to watch are the first five laps and the last two. The rest is usually predictable.

One thing I am excited about, however, is the World Cup Final. I pass the time until it starts in the usual pottering kind of way, and by having a nice walk through Priory Park and Crouch End before K's sisters have to leave. The game is all set up to be a bit of a classic - and I'm in the happy position of being content to see either team win (though there is a sense that it'd better if Holland lifted the trophy, being the 'underdogs' and all). However, a classic on paper rarely materialises - especially when it's a cup final.

The match turns out to be a pig ugly, cynical affair - which, while intriguing, is hardly an advert for the 'beautiful game'. The Netherlands have clearly set out to stop Spain playing, and attempt to accomplish this by kicking their players as hard as they can, as often as they can. In Nigel De Jong's case, the kick is straight to the chest of Xabi Alonso - and he's incredibly lucky to stay on the field. English referee Howard Webb hands out 14 yellow cards during the game, including one red after Johnny Heitinga picked up a second booking. Webb has a good game, all told - struggling to control a game that seemingly wanted to end up 7 vs 7 and basically end up as an affront to the very idea of beautiful football. Van Bommel, in particular, is a disgrace.

The game stays goalless for 90 minutes, and so becomes the second World Cup Final in a row to head to extra time - during which Andres Iniesta (yes, that little heartbreaking bastard) smashes home a half-volley to make it 1-0 to Spain in the World Cup for the fourth match in a row.

The final whistle goes amidst predictable Dutch indignation - but Spain truly deserve this one, not just for being the best team at the tournment (it's a close one between them and Germany) but because Holland have been so cynical and ugly in their attempt to win it today. It's amazing watching the Spanish fans and players celebrate, and the predictable scenes of ecstatic mayhem broadcast from the streets of Madrid.

The BBC (no one watched this on ITV, did they?) end with a rather nice District 9-themed end-of-tournament montage - and it's all over. For another four years. And football's all over, for over a month. It's cruel, really.