Persuaded The Boy that we only had time for one DVD episode of Pyramids of Mars so could catch start of the second semi; was never likely to live up to last night's Germano/Italiano treat. Abruptly stopped reading of Harry And His Bucketful Of Dinosaurs when Thierry took a tumble. ZZ, top homme and cool comme une concombre, slotted home: are you watching, Frank, Steven and Jamie?

As the tournament has progressed, my family have mutated into a comfy sofa full of footy pundits. Nice catch!, says The Boy, while Good Lady Wife observes that Portugal truly are the new England: they don't look like scoring, there's not enough bodies forward, and exhibit C, Meira's wild & wide late-on Lampardian shot. Plus there was more diving than a World of Sport clifftop special from Acapulco. Tchau, Portugal.

So very old, so very tired, c/w a goalie who executes comedy saves with his eyes closed, and yet the side coached by an eccentric fashion designer are through to Sunday's grand finale. Felicitations, France.

A word to those German telly Direktors: when there's a lull, your English armchair fan wants to see pretty young things in the crowd, but you give us ex-managers, heads of state and Maradona. Oi: no!