Football crazy

Bad to worse. How many more blows can the national game take in a week? First, there was Figo and the rest of them consigning an expectant nation to another of those bouts of gloomy introspection about fate, identity and the advisability of buccaneering attack when you've got a dodgy back four. And now: now comes the news that Match of the Day will soon be no more. The Germans couldn't have planned it any better.

Bad to worse. How many more blows can the national game take in a week? First, there was Figo and the rest of them consigning an expectant nation to another of those bouts of gloomy introspection about fate, identity and the advisability of buccaneering attack when you've got a dodgy back four. And now: now comes the news that Match of the Day will soon be no more. The Germans couldn't have planned it any better.

But hold on - Match of the Day? No more? What? Just memories now; of our dear departed Saturday evenings, our Hill and Coleman, our Bough and Motson, our sheepskin coats, imperilled parrots and conquered moons of long ago, all to that tune. People have got married to that tune, you know. What? Have we lost Dishy Des and found our Gary - all ears, solid judgement and Zen-ish Midlands calm - for it to end like this? Not even highlights with that ugly, modish MOTD motif any more? How can Jerusalem be built?

Enough! Have you seen what channel-crossing has done to Des? Save our Gary! This is the sort of pledge that William Hague is good at: man on, get in there first, Tony! A nation waits. Oh, and Tony: the WI adores Gary!