In England

I wouldn't normally bother but I did. I spent a chunk of the afternoon (but they may do an all day breakfast) in Wetherspoons Birmingham Airport watching a lacklustre England side struggle to beat Slovenia. Of course the assembled travelling masses seemed to disagree and cheered their heroes on through 94 minutes of stressful TV time. Meanwhile friendly Polish staff handed out plates of chips and salmon fish cakes, passing through the multitudes, those lost and confused nomadic multitudes. The same people that Jesus said he loved and that he believed wanted to listen to him. Trouble is that now all they want to listen to Gary Lineker's one liners, have a cheep pint and a side order of garlic bread and then get the hell out of Birmingham.

Eventually the final whistle blew and the magnificent horns and vuvuzelas ceased their free form idiotic blaring and I supped the last drops of a dark brown beery pint. Gradually the crowds parted and drifted from Wetherspoons, shifting over to Costa or Coffee Republic or towards the promise of a blinking departure gate light. The match is over and consigned to to some blurred red and white memory vault and the plates have been cleared away. Germany on Sunday as it turns out and more food will be prepared, consumed or abandoned as jaws drop.

It's easy to feel like a king in another man's country but it's not healthy.