It hasn't felt like a Cup Final day today. Not in any way, shape or form. I could not have given a flying fuck whether Chelsea won or Pompey lost (I know, I have a heart of stone. I just don't buy all that fairytale shit, I'm sorry to say) and have felt nothing since finding out the result a few minutes ago.
I read a tweet earlier (from Tim Lovejoy) which was lamenting the lack of TV build up, though that has been the case for many a long year. The last one I enjoyed featured the erstwhile manager of Bettabuys (ashamed that I can't recall his name now) carrying out a draw for the two teams who would be playing and also involved the usual QoS special. Since then, in all honesty, there hasn't been too much to get excited about, though that might have been different if City had been involved.
Now, as ever, the febrile excitement of the approaching World Cup is slightly tempered by the masses of injuries which have befallen the players. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Capello's squad of 30 and immediately thought I could do better - until I started to look into some of the other possible players and realised that there really isn't much of an option other than Emile Heskey. God help us.
Last night in the pub, I got into a conversation with a couple of blokes, and one made me laugh uproariously with stories of his dad banging the side of the TV to make Big Emile fall over. It worked every time.
At least there are the play-offs to look forward to.