there's too much panic in this town

+ Life, like football, has the tendency to amaze sometimes. I am no longer sick. I am apparently no longer unemployed. And I seem to have started to care about Ronaldinho. I mean, huh. Thanks here to Ursus, who offered to mail me 'dinho merchandise straight from the mothership, but I find I am in the happy position of being able to refuse for perfectly practical reasons. I do not buy original football merchandise from any of the European Club Association boys, and the 'dinho fakes are going to be flooding our streets like the late July rains in a matter of months, it is to be hoped. I will have my synthetic winter-wear Milan #80, should I so choose, with little to no trouble to me or to the very kind Ursus. Life in Bombay would be difficult indeed for one who wanted a Digao jersey, but luckily, I am not that one.

+ My greatest contact with football remains the Football Italia page, since I am incapable of swearing off all trashy football gossip. It's nice to see Jose Mourinho settling in, even if his storied recalcitrance seems to be rubbing off on the neighbours in strange, unexpected ways. I'm a little cheesed off at the lack of Beppe Baresi in the Inter training pictures, but I hope there will be some soon. The Baresi Brothers webcomic that Martha and I plan to produce might have to be post-art and blank panels if this continues.

+ Thank goodness I can't watch the cricket. ;__;

+ I have been studying old photos of Juventus lately, thanks to my friend Neko. They were a frighteningly attractive-looking bunch. I'm not sure if Antonio Cabrini does or does not remind me of Ashton Kutcher. I know the leavening in that loaf is that Cabrini was largely excellent at his job, while Kutcher is not [please don't argue, you speak to a woman who has seen Just Married twice]. Perhaps this time when I say I'll make that post on vintage kit, I will.

+ And sometime guest-blogger and cycling expert Sofie is now available full-time on her spanking new blog de foot, viz. football and the city.

+ No, seriously. I have a job and everything now. I know, I can't believe it either.

shaking off the chains

It is almost a month since my last appearance in this part of the Internet - disease and unemployment have kept my nose at other grindstones, alas, and I have been amusing myself with reading things other than the sports pages ever since Euro 2008 ended; I refuse to concern myself with transfers. I was struck down by a hideous monsoon virus just when Marcello Lippi took over Italy, which meant I had no chance to collect my thoughts and feelings of vague resentment about this development. I was unable to express my love for Iker Casillas on the night of Spain's victory in the Euros. I had no way to persuade you of how little the fate of Ronaldinho matters to me. I could still express my rage at the debate over 'modern slavery' raging about the frosted hair of Cristiano Ronaldo, but let's consider it said, since James Lawton has already taken the opportunity to be self-righteous about it somewhere in the pages of The Independent. But I hope to return presently, with musings on vintage Juventus kits, and the thrills of the UEFA Cup.

How about that Ajantha Mendis, anyway?