Beeeeeg surprises tonight on the teevee. First France beat England with, what, 20 picoseconds left? I have to say that my admiration for England’s skills is as huge as my distaste for its fans. So I had really mixed emotions; sad for the team, but pretty happy to see all those lager louts having a bummer night.

And what is it with Beckham’s tattoo, anyway? I thought you got your neck tattooed only in prison. Besides, now that it’s all messed up with all that ink, how’s he going to jack into the Matrix?

Further proof of the topsy-turvy night comes when Samer Issa gets kicked off SuperStar, setting up a showdown between Å arka and Aneta. I always figured Samer would win, but what do I know?

But for all those surprise losses, the guy I really don’t want to be tomorrow morning – the Monday morning after his party gets blown out massively in the EU elections – is Vladimír Å pidla. Not that I ever wanted to be him in the first place, mind you. But if I were him, I’d be rooting around the mud under the Charles Bridge, looking for Bruncvík’s sword. He’s gonna need all the help he can get in the next few days.
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