Why is watching England play football like spending 90 minutes slowly peeling a plaster off your arm? At one point during Sunday's match, Germany had so many goals that they just seemed a bit embarrased, not sure whether to score again or just kick the ball around amonst themselves.
Lampard's disallowed goal might have turned things around, after all, nothing gets us Brits going more than a bit of hard-done-by under-dog spirit. We was robbed! (I started having headline flashes). Honest Albion cheated of victory by sneaky Swiss ref! Neutral country? Pah.
In the end however, the fact remains that England played like a lot of sulky woosies and the Germans played like, well, Germans. I wanted to yell at the big screen that my unborn child was kicking more than the England team.
'She's not kicking, she's dancing,' chortled G, 'we all know she's going to support Italy when she grows up.'
We clearly still have a few parenting issues to work out.
Ever since Italy went out, G has done nothing but remind me that if England do well then it'll all be thanks to an Italian. Well, dearest, that particular theory works both ways. Today, Mr Cartoon Face is ina lotta trubol. Sadly, there are no prizes for best dressed manager. Otherwise, Capello's waistcoat would have won first place for England hands down. As for the German manager, I have only three words: Just For Men.