Note to advertisers: liking football does not a gullible idiot make. By far and away the worst part about watching the World Cup from the sanctity of the front room is the relentless assault from advertisers with crass attempts to pimp worthless tat using Germany 2006 as a vehicle.
The thud of boot on ball, the sound of a cheering crowd, a slow-mo shot of a diving keeper, it can only be ... drum-roll ... a three-seater manual double-reclining sofa from DFS. Or Land of Leather. The voiceover: "Buy now and you can have your sofa delivered before the World Cup!"
Eh? Has everyone been sitting on the floor until now? Are people around the country standing in empty rooms, leaning on walls and thinking: "Hey - the World Cup's about to start, it's about time I bought some furniture!"
Then there's Mars. Or "Believe" as it's been rebranded for the duration. Unbelievable bollocks, more like.
And if the sincere, "we can win it" tack doesn't work, there's always the smug, conspiratorial "come on fellas, we all love football, now let's all have a laugh" tone.
Ho, ho ... Michael Owen locked in a cupboard! It's so funny, it makes me want to order a big, fat disk of lardy melted cheese covered in meaty footballs! Which are actually just meatballs, but the crucial inclusion of that word 'foot' really helps sell a pizza at World Cup time. God be with the days when England footballers waited until after their ignominious tournament exit to hawk pizzas.
Of course having lugged that sofa around and eaten that salty food, by now you'll be thirsty, which means it's time for some tooth-rotting sugar water. But wait! You're going to need a mini-fridge! How will you keep the decomposing flesh of what was once your left buttock welded to the (new!) settee without missing a millisecond of Mexico v Iran?
Cue Andy Gray's wooden "commentary" on that Argos advert: "And he's through the auto payment system, all he needs to do is collect it! And it's THERE!" And the crowd cheers triumphantly.
STOP! WE'RE NOT STUPID! There is nothing remotely sporty about spending Saturday afternoon queuing for electrical goods in Argos. And no matter how many damned blades there are on that Gillette razor, shaving will not bestow anyone with Beckham's ball skills or chiseled jawline. Particularly not if they're drinking Pepsi.
Oh... and if Carlsberg is promoting "probably" the best pub team in the world, then how come Sir Bobby Robson's in charge?
