So Australia is out of the World Cup. What a fizzer of a game after last week's dramatics. But I'm proud of the lads and I'm sure we'll be cheering them on again four years from now. It's definitely been the most entertaining bandwagon I've jumped on for awhile!

When we were at the Grand Canyon last year, Gareth and I spent a lot of time sniggering at all the tourists videotaping the scenery. It's a bloody ancient CANYON, people! It's not going to move! I felt sorry for the poor friends and families who'd be forced to watch the rocks-and-bush action upon their return.

But after a recent hard-drive clearout proved I'm just as guilty. I bought a new camera for the Russia/Scandinavian tour in 2004 and was bedazzled by its fancy buttons and mega megapixels. Most of all I went bananas with the movie feature. I made dozens of fillums with very little action, all sharing a complete disregard for focus, imagination and steady hands.

So now I shall share the mediocrity with YOU!

Well! I think I've erased about five years from my life and destroyed the springs of the couch during the Australia v Croatia match tonight. I was shaking like a shitting dog throughout the whole thing. The tension, comrades; THE TENISON!

Gareth adds: "And how many times did you scream, 'Noooo, you fucking IDIOT!'."

About 475! And the longer the game went on the more syllables I added to the word, in increasingly Australian tones.... NOOOOOOOUUUEEEEEEEWWWWW!

But the end result was 2-2 so Australia are through to the second round! Huzzah! We play Italy on Monday. Which really sucks because instead of perving on the supermodel cheekbones of the boys in blue, I will have to concentrate on cheering on our lads. 'MON THE AUSSIES!

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During French Open Final last Sunday I decided that clay is my favourite tennis court surface. Sexy Legs Rog and the boy Nadal were just covered in red dust by the end of the match. This is the closest thing you get to Live Male Mud-Wrestling. All they need to do is strip off, tattoo the sponsor logos onto their biceps, hose down the court and away we go!

There's just so much sport going on at the moment I can barely breathe. Wimbledon is just around the corner. Then the Tour de France. And growling away in the background is the MotoGP season. It's been pure heart-in-mouth excitement, especially compared to the plodding, poncy pile of shite that is Formula One.

But right now, much to my surprise, I've gone a bit World Cup Crazy. Consequently I have not done any writing this week. Or bathed regularly.

I can't wait for Australia v Brazil. Tonight I made the meringue for my Very First Pavlova which I really hope turns out because I'll be serving it up to the in-laws during the game. There's always a debate about whether this dessert actually comes from New Zealand, but tomorrow we shall call it Aussie, even though the passionfruit was probably flown in from Brazil.

During tonight's shambolic USA v Italy match they announced there will be a very special guest Australian commentator joining the ITV team tomorrow - SHANE WARNE. A leading football pundit, apparently.

UPDATE: I reckon we did alright, eh? And the pav wasn't too shabby either.

Tonight the sun will set at 10 o'clock. Precious, precious sun. I want to sit in the back yard, tune out the sqwarking baby upstairs and the village skanks in their Vauxhall Corsas, then watch the sky until the last bit of light has drained.

This will be my fourth Scottish summer. I've completely erased the memory of Australian summers, where it was so hot I was an apple in the mouth short of resembling a pig on a spit. Now I've completely adapted to the Northern Hemisphere, thus finding today's maximum temperature of 21 degrees (70'F) positively subtropical.

Would you believe that for the past three days I have walked to the train station at 6.45AM without a jacket. After months of darkness, scarves and coats, it feels almost obscene to feel a breeze crawl up the hairs on your forearms. Not to mention sunlight oozing over bare toes! You may as well be naked.

Until I lived here I never understood the big deal about seasons. I remember in high school English, when John Keats asked, "Where are the songs of spring?". My response was, "WHO CARES!". And how dull to write a whole stinking Ode To Autumn in the first place. Seasons to me were just endless variations of Hot, occasionally interrupted by rain or hayfever.

But now I'm sad bastard who crows at the sight of a blossom after a long winter. I'd gladly pen poems about bunnies and bumble bees if only I had the rhyming skills. Instead I've been doing the next best thing: tuning into Spring Watch.

Non-Brits will remember Bill Odie as the wee one from The Goodies, but apparently somewhere along the line he turned into a birdwatching camouflage-wearing nature-guru TV presenter.

L: Goodie Bill, R: Spring Bill

At first I couldn't believe something as tedious as Spring Watch would be allowed on air. Basically, there's Bill Odie and crew on some farm in England, poking cameras into ponds, nests and burrows. Then they wait and they wait and they wait. Then the footage of various creatures engaging in springtime activities is broadcast in a prime timeslot every weeknight. There's a lot of bird migration stories, bird-on-bird action stories, bird laying eggs stories, bird fishing for insect stories, bird leaving the nest stories.

When Spring Watch returned last week I screamed at the telly, "Not freaking Bill Odie and his freaking birds again? WHO CARES!?".

Because British animals are boring. They don't kill you. They don't bite, maim or strangle. They don't have to trek through a desert for water, or run like the clappers from a roaring bushfire. They don't sit in trees getting drunk on eucalyptus. They don't eat babies. Without fangs, poison or fearsome jaws of death, where's the entertainment value?

But somehow this year I've been hooked, just in that idle half hour before The Daily Show starts. I blame the Red Squirrels for being so rare and prettier than the bastard Grey Squirrels. Then the badgers were endearing, digging tunnels at midnight. Then the kingfisher was fishing and the otters were frolicking in Shetland. All these creatures I'd only previously known from Beatrix Potter books. Tits, swallows, robins, wrens! British animals may not be cold-blooded tourist killers, but they are cute and wholesome; and entertaining in their own way.

Where was I going with this? I can't remember. It's 10.47 now and there's still bits of blue outside. Spring Rules. That's all I meant to say.