This festival of exploitation, hosted by the tamed ‘Germans' (hey during world cup we can use that irritating tribal register), reminds us all that success is now entirely dependent on homogeneity and the surgical removal of individuality, despite fatty Cantona's sponsored protestations on behalf of the enemy of all artists. The sight of goofy show pony Ronaldinho sporting his personal line of branded headbands against France illustrated the sort of marketing and cash frenzy the WC has become. That really was a repulsive but sobering sight, akin to a horse being flogged to death by its abusive owner. No wonder the little dragon was subdued in all Brasil's games (apart from 20 minutes against Japan), he's probably got a head full of marketing speak, as well as patented samba rhythms of course. At least our generation who grew up loving futbol do Brasil can finally favour another favourite side.

The ludicrous refereeing of most (especially the group) matches is clearly a direct result of clubs (well, Royal Madrid, Manchester Stunted, AC Meeeelan, Yourentus, Smellsea, Bryan Munich) lobbying FIFA. As the tournament has proved, bad tackles can never be completely eliminated and taking the most extreme interpretation of minimal physical contact only serves to reduce the game to a series of hysterically Homeric poses in the pursuit of a free kick. Still, market share must be respected at all times, even if it threatens the very existence of this unique sporting activity. Footballers are mostly greedy c*nts with a limited shelf life, so that doesn't help either. The people who run football are also shameless account checkers, which is why a disproportionately high percentage of tickets went to the corporate whores. Keep the masses penned in the flatpack beer zones in city squares or parks.

In a competition of countries it's inevitable that nation-state characteristics will dominate. Let's talk a little about the English psyche, then. While some things change, others remain steadfast. England are shit and always will be while there is this crippling and anachronistic hostility toward independence of mind and thought. Our working-class footballers revel in the commerce-led Premiership but when it comes to national pride they lose all sense of self-determination. Steven Gerrard, on his day an unstoppable force carrying the team on his own, missed his penalty because his ability and seniority demand that he sing the national anthem when doesn't really want to and the stadium was full of drones, never happier than when advertising their phenomenally bleak chauvinism and spectacularly engineered ignorance (all the while why the media treat the budget football tourists as part of a new cultural phenomenon). Carragher's flawed psychology was painfully illustrated when he took his penalty without waiting for the referee's whistle. He was never going to score after that and a nation's stupidity was masqueraded as a badge of honour once again. Rooney doesn't sing the anthem and is unlikely ever to shed his outsider status; neither will he need to as he realises that national football is just a big show and unlikely to effect his earning power.

To square the circle of pathetic actions, JT, Brio Ferdinand, cLamp-hard, Becks (again) et al howled like babies as if to show the hordes who invested in this spectacle that it really hurts, when the reality is that they're all mercenaries who cannot adapt to the demands of country football. Why this post-rave, post-laddist demand that we have to show fatously ‘authentic' grief? We all delude ourselves to think that it means something. 

True to jealous form, the Englishmen in the studio carped on about how bad ‘the Portuguese' were against ‘the French', diving, ducking and trying to win the game. Fuck off Shearer, you puritannical Geordie twat, living in ignorance about the reality of the game. In his purezone, he and his other Englishmen have never cheated, not much. We like to lose, with honour. Long may it stay that way.

Italy-Germany expanded the front of experience even further. An all-out, muscular, at-times-homoerotic clash of the titans and gladly a refutation of the boring percentage football where teams gamble on winning on penalties. But there was no obvious, ahem, ‘final solution' - fruhstuck on pane would not go. Who would break the bonds of athletic fear? Extra-time, Grosso scores! It's the Nuovo Tardelli. Il Entusiasmo  - the rapture. We all live through his glory... For ‘the Germans', mass crying breaks out in the manner of the English (but for none of the pathetic causes), and appropriately in this English language-led global franchise they deal with their trauma through singing You'll Never Walk Alone.

So effectively the soccerball tournament jousted for by old Europe, the Latinos, the Africans and a sprinkling of others tells us a lot about the financial, national and emotional leveraging of modern sport and the character of our nations. A meaningless experience that should have no bearing on our thought, love, life, work, shoes or recycling programmes, nevertheless it can be an uplifting experience. Have an impact. But are we forever chasing the moment? "Tonight has slightly restored my faith in football," texted a mate shortly after Del Piero's clincher. Yes! At least one game was good and we could immerse ourselves in it.

So although I'm tempted to say it has no genuine effect (in my office the weekend defeat was simply avoided as people got on with their work), let's see the fitba as the perfect modern capitalist, synthetic transaction. We pay in some way (tickets, beer, TV licence, scones) and expect not a product but an experience at the end of it. Not to say we always get one and not to say, like Voodoo Chiles did the other night, that it's either all bad or all good, getting out his contemptuously innocent moralmometer.