Contents:
1. The Revolution
2. A Leader on the Eve of Battle
3. Uprising
4. Group D: England Lags 3 Czech Republic 0
5. Group D: France 2 England Lags 2
6. Pups Pay The Penalty
7. Talk is Cheap
8. Quarter Final: England Lags 3 Ireland 1
9. Semi Final: Holland 0 England Lags 0 (4-3 pens)
10. 3rd/4th Play-off: France 1 England Lags 2
11. The Aftermath

THE REVOLUTION
It was emotional. It was physically demanding. It was, as always, a pleasure. But ultimately it wasn't quite good enough. The Lags' assault on the sixth Logica World Cup was seemingly a juggernaut with a heavy load on an unstoppable journey to Gloryville. But with the Final destination in sight, the wheels unexpectedly came off, and with too many spare tyres to choose from, the Lags veered dramatically off course and had to settle for third place.

They came from all corners of the globe as usual. Tokyo. Edinburgh. Islington, of course. Hackney. Stoke Newington. Bicester even. As the pale Friday night sun swallow-dived over the Mancunian horizon, they arrived one by one for The Revolution. Oliver: solitary, suave, unruffled, until after an hour he began to worry that he might have got the wrong pub. Grassie: eager, animated, betraying a slight limp, keen to talk strategy. Ryder - modest, a throw-back to previous decades, at one with life but still searching for a fellow poet of the soul. McHattie: calm, collected, unphased by neither the juvenile traumas of the previous night, nor the senile old fat blurk in the corner who insisted on calling him Stuart. Lambert: quiet, swift, a faint air of champagne and brandy about him.

Then they began to arrive in packs. Simon and Simon: doubtless composing new anthems for the latest campaign, although another pronounced limp told of battles past. Then in a rush, Abbott, Clarke, Spence, Sidaway all at once. Their battle-cry was "The Winner Takes It All" and they believed it. Vehemently.

The hushed but reverend tones belied the fervent expectancy on the eve of battle. Boddingtons helped ease the nerves. Ryder had found his soul-mate though, and he and The Bard conversed in rhyming couplet.

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A LEADER ON THE EVE OF BATTLE
On to the Shere Khan. A tiger. A cub. Neither appropriate. Tier One desperado's in a taxi set up camp. Tier Two followed on foot. All eat ravenously. Jalfrezi, Vindaloo, Bhajis, Salad. Then the moment arrives. The leader is revealed without the slightest hint of democracy. The Dictator unveils his reasoning, and speaks sincerely of great hopes of success. It is to be a committee this year. The trophy last year was so big that it will take at least two Lags to lift it. Read is chosen as deputy. Wisdom, experience, sagacity, a slight gardening injury. Grassie is to be Captain. Talent, leadership, tactically astute, an uncompromising approach to blisters. The Lags like to live on the edge, their very existence is a gamble. On this occasion, Abbott wins the lottery, picking the "Mitch" ticket from the hat, before announcing him as captain.

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UPRISING
Dawn rose reluctantly over the Wilmslow Road MacDonalds, as those finely tuned Lag warriors prepared for the confrontation. Cases of Neurofen and Lucozade were packed in amongst the various body-support contraptions demanded by the more mature athlete competing at this level. After watching the Pups early morning struggle to get InterWomen, the stragglers arrive. Johninho, his little eyes bright with schoolboy excitement at his long-awaited promotion to Lagdom. Reevaldo, shabbily shambling into the stadium, his slumpy gait a testament to the rigours of a never-ending whirl of media parties. Read, enthusiasm undimmed by the after effects of the hoe incident. Khan rolls in last, apparently delayed by some difficulties procuring a spare set of knees.

All is looking good until we realise we have no goalkeeper. Again. No matter. Grassie inspires us with his tactical acumen. It is to be 4-5-1. The pace of Lambert and, er, Reevaldo out wide. A solid middle provided by Woolhouse and McHattie. Abbott as a floater, supporting the lone-furrow merchant Sidaway in attack whenever possible, helping out with the midfield donkey-work as necessary. Yeah, right. Spence's subtle skills are to be employed sweeping behind Johninho, the Stopper. Clarke and Oliver are the full-backs. Read and Khan are ready to slip seamlessly into play from the bench.

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GROUP D - ENGLAND LAGS 3 CZECH REPUBLIC 0
England Scorers: Spence, Reevaldo (2).
Battle commences against the clichéd "dark horses" from the Czech Republic, who have already bounced back once in scoring a last minute equaliser against France (admittedly courtesy of the Barthezesque French keeper clawing the ball into his own net). Grassie takes the green jersey, and within seconds nearly presents the Czechs with a second gift as he falls on his arse in comedy fashion to leave a blank looking Czech striker with an open goal. But from nowhere, the stealthy lower limbs of libero Spence materialise to block a certain goal.

Spence is soon making an impact at the other end. After orchestrating the correct positions of virtually every Lag, he creeps forward from half way at the last moment to receive a short Reevaldo corner. With minimal fuss he then curls a perfect whipped shot around the sprawling and mulletted keeper and just inside the far post (1-0). Spence had set the level of quality required of the Lags. Remarkably they maintained it.

Next up was Abbott, flitting around the holes vacated by Reevaldo. Accepting a visionary short pass from Sumo, he turned to fool his marker with the nonciest of extravagant dummies. With the defender still in mid-air, Abbott cuts inside and arcs a perfect cross to the far post. There, waiting patiently is Reevaldo, who rises salmonically and thunders a header into a bulging net (2-0).

Spence and Grassie swap roles, but the second half continues in the same one-sided fashion. A wave of attacks; a plethora of missed chances. At last Abbott picks out Reevaldo on the opposite flank. The Hackney hole-merchant advances before feeding Woolhouse. An inch-perfect return finds Reevaldo having continued his run into the box. Ever conscious of conserving energy, the shabby one hits his shot into the far corner with just the requisite effort to see it safely inside the post (3-0).

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GROUP D - FRANCE 2 ENGLAND LAGS 2
England Scorers: Sidaway, Spence.
With barely time enough to sit down for luncheon, the Lags are back in action. A sterner test in the form of France, whom England have never beaten. Philippe Soria, les bleus' elegant and skilful number ten is still running the show from the middle of 'le parc' after four World Cups. The Zidane of Toulouse it is reckoned. A difficult first half has the Lags struggling with the wind as well as the opposition. But Reevaldo is there once again to ease the pressure. A finely weighted through-ball springs Sidaway from the trap. As in days of yore, the ball ends up in the back of the net quickly followed by a crumpled French keeper (0-1). Abbott, now charged with the gloves, helps to maintain the lead with a reflex save from point-blank range. Shortly after, a mis-hit cross is looping net-bound but Abbott somehow manages to finger-tip the ball against a post, and Johninho is on hand to clear the danger.

Then from nowhere, the keeper Mike Ryan arrives. He is still putting his gloves on when Spence pounces to add a second goal. There seemed to be no danger as the defender closed down a long aimless ball out of defence. But with too much time, the back-pass is delayed, the keeper comes, then hesitates. Spence pounces in a flash, and smashes the ball into the roof of the net from twenty yards before the French duo know what has happened (0-2). Some finish.

The Lags feel they have the match wrapped up now, and even feel confident enough to rest the hard-working Sidaway in readiness for the quarter-final. But two superb Soria free-kicks in the last five minutes level the scores. Ryan does superbly to get a hand to the first one, but can only tip it onto a post, from where an eager French forward smashes home the rebound (1-2). The second, in the dying seconds is a carbon copy (2-2). But this late glitch is irrelevant really, The Lags still top their group, and will play Ireland the next morning.

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PUPS PAY THE PENALTY
There is just time left in the day's schedule to take stock of The Pups progress. After beating Aberdeen 2-1, and holding Italy to 0-0, they have finished runners-up in their group and have drawn Holland in a quarter-final to be played last thing on Saturday. The Lags watch a tense affair with some relish. Quarter-final victories for both would see a Pups v Lags semi-final the next day. But despite a splendid Jon Clarke goal, the Pups are held to a 1-1 draw and it all goes down to penalties - virgin territory for new Supremo Groom. Abbott and Sidaway generously offer the benefit of their vast experience. But to no avail. Clarke and Hattons Major and Minor miss, and Holland triumph. Sidaway wakens the Football Gods with some ill-advised banter concerning pizzas.

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TALK IS CHEAP
It has become a well-established tradition on the Saturday night after the first days play in the World Cup. All The Lags congregate for a sumptuous repast where the wine gushes forth nearly as much as Sidaway. For many, this is the one annual occasion to meet up with fellow Lags and reminisce on glories past.

The aim is that The Lags must still have an interest in the World Cup thereby enabling them to talk ourselves to ultimate victory. This usually takes about one bottle of red. In Bordeaux, the wine was that good that we even got as far as casting the actors who would play each Lag in the Hollywood blockbuster that would inevitably follow our triumph (Tom Cruise would play Sidaway if memory serves).

Tonight, however, there was a tangible edge. We knew our prospective path to the Final. Ireland in a quarter-final and Holland in the semi. Many felt that there was a serious possibility of glory, and some were worried about angering the Football Gods with a show of complacency. Conversation moved to penalties and Sidaway was quite clear about what the Gods expected. Practice would be the ultimate provocation to those up above. The Lags were a team moulded in the Corinthian image. Practice was immoral. Practising penalties even more so. In fact, penalties were only awarded as a result of errors or accidents on the part of the opposition. Therefore, it would be unethical to exploit the misfortune of our fellow man. We, The Lags, were morally required to deliberately miss any penalties that might come our way. Unfortunately, Abbott was in the toilet for the duration of this philosophical debate.

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QUARTER FINAL - ENGLAND LAGS 3 IRELAND 1
England Scorers: Lambert, Sidaway, Abbott (pen).
The resolution of the team was clear as they ground out an emphatic victory largely based on hard work. Our elusive keeper was once again otherwise engaged and Grassie once again did the honours. The Lags started at an electric pace as the rain once more made conditions tricky. Abbott collected the ball in midfield and instantly dissected the Irish backline with a perfectly weighted pass. Lambert took the ball in his stride and expertly finished low into the corner (1-0). Within minutes, an exact replica. This time it was Reevaldo's vision that sent Sidaway clear. The experienced striker still had plenty to do from an acute angle, but the legendary number nine produced a sublime curling finish around a helpless keeper and just inside the far post (2-0).

The Lags relaxed a tad now, although chances still came. Abbott threaded another ball through for Lambert but this time the keeper made a brave block. The Irish had shown great character to come back from 2-0 down to beat SAP Practice 4-2 and clinch a place in the quarter-finals. And now they threatened to do the same as they pulled a goal back from a corner. The Lags' marking could be criticised, but there was nothing that anyone could do about the bullet header that zipped between goalkeeper and defender on the line (2-1).

The Lags held their nerve and showed great discipline at the back. Abbott replaced Grassie in goal and was immediately called upon to field a low shot from 20 yards. England only sporadically threatened in attack, but Sidaway continued to do a great deal of unselfish work chasing lost causes, closing down, and making runs off the ball. A couple of times these runs could have resulted in further goals had the ball been played slightly earlier and not caught him "a fraction" offside. Grassie marshalled his troops at the back superbly, and regular substitutions maintained the impetus. Finally the break-through came after a good passing build-up put Reevaldo in space on the left. He dazzled his full-back with some trickery that was too quick for the eye of this reporter, and a bamboozled Irish leg could not help felling the Hackney Houdini. Abbott was summoned the full length of the pitch and duly dispatched the penalties without even bothering to take his gloves off (3-1). After that the result was never in doubt, and The Lags had their semi-final against their old Dutch rivals.

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SEMI FINAL - HOLLAND 0 ENGLAND LAGS 0
(Holland win 4-3 on pens)
The Lags found that the Dutch were not quite the pushovers that perhaps some of them had imagined. Their players were all strong and fast and they were very well organised defensively, with an excellent sweeper pulling the strings. England struggled early on to adapt, and indeed Holland came closest to scoring in the first half with a brisk twenty yard shot that late arrival Ryan did well to tip around a post at full stretch.

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THIRD / FOURTH PLAY OFF - ENGLAND LAGS 2 FRANCE 1
England Scorers: Spence, Abbott.
Despite this immense disappointment, the Lags gathered themselves both mentally and physically for one last effort. The French had succumbed 0-1 to the Italians in the other semi-final, and so Anglo-French rivalry was renewed with a bronze gong at prize. Legs were desperately tired by this stage, but the two teams put on an excellent show of the footballing arts despite this.

England struck first when they broke away with the ball direct from a French corner. Spence was played clear, and although the keeper managed to block his first effort, the striker followed up with some aplomb (1-0). The Logica Way it used to be called.

Just before half time, England added a second, a goal of some individual brilliance. Abbott read a French pass and got to the ball just before his opponent. Accelerating away from a second defender, he paused briefly on the edge of the box. He shaped to pass inside, but then dragged the ball deftly away to the outside, leaving a third defender for dead. The keeper advanced, but a gentle shimmy left him floundering in a knot on the ground as Abbott danced past him. Two defenders raced desperately to cover the exposed goal, but Abbott was not going to miss from here, and he imperiously flicked the ball past a number of lunging outstretched legs on the line (2-0). The over-elaboration was almost as flowery and unnecessary as the prose, but this is what the fans pay to come and see.

Thereafter England found some reserves of strength from somewhere and started turning it on. Some lovely passing moves originated from the back, with Johninho and Grassie looking like the Hansen and Lawrenson of the, well, Eighties. A late French consolation didn't seriously threaten the Lag's third place, and after the disappointment of the Dutch shoot-out, this impressive performance which produced England's first ever victory over France in the Logica World Cup, was at least some small consolation.

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THE AFTERMATH
Lags Captain Mitchell Grassie was invited to mount the podium and collect a very impressive Bronze Plate as a reward for an impressive third place. Baubles were distributed and champagne was sprayed. The Dutch gallantly volunteered to host next year's tournament, and everyone generously cheered the Italians even though there was no trophy to present. The Lags should have been well pleased with third spot, but deep down you could sense there was a rueful feeling of what might have been. The cars heading south down the M6 were quiet places, each Lag preferring to be left alone with their own inner contemplation. There was one man however very pleased with his weekend's work. A shabby man, hunched greedily over the wheel of his cheap pool car, unable to remove a self-satisfied grin for the whole of the five hour drive back to Hackney. All he could think of was the little roll of film safely stashed away in his boot.