No al calcio moderno indeed. Here's Dimi Berbatov doing his smokiest in the tradition of Len Shackleton/ Jackie Milburn/ George Camsell, tough-guy mid-century forwards who left a pack of Woodbines behind the goalpost for breaks in play. Berbatov seems to be auditioning for the role of the new Eric Cantona; chances are he's going to get it.
On the subject of calcio vecchio, I strapped up my ankle and played last night. Honestly, I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't going work-mental. I'd written 1200 words, had nothing more to say and (for reasons the council haven't ascertained yet, and which could be to do with Megatron or Lex Luther) the whole city stank of gas. I needed to let off steam and I don't have enough plates to break, so I thought I'd gamble on the ankle instead. I'd be dancing at a wedding at the weekend anyway*. Anyway, I got a hat-trick. Perhaps I should knack my ankle every week.
* There may well be some embarassing Youtube footage of me dancing to none other than Donna Summer's Hot Stuff by now. I'd like it made clear that I knew I was being filmed and doing the 'embarassing uncle' dance for a joke. Not that I'm any good at dancing usually (I manage to make to interpret the sweetest sould song or the most hedonistically sexual disco number in an Ian Curtis-meets-Lee Evans way.)