I had a dream last night. About Wayne Rooney's foot. In this dream, in the last minute of extra time against Brazil, in the forthcoming World Cup Final, Wayne Rooney comes on as the last England substitute, his first appearance in the tournament. He staggers on, shambles over for a Beckham corner, then hackles the ball over the goal line before once again collapsing in agony as he injures his foot again.
But what the heck, because he's just won the World Cup!
I wonder what the doctors will say today? The dreams of an entire nation are emotionally attached to the backlit film of an MRI scan.
AngloAustria prediction: If his foot is good, the Labour Party might win the next General Election. If his foot is bad, Labour are finished. The fate of a nation therefore depends upon the osteoclast and osteoblast cells of a Scouse exponent of the art of lumping pig's bladders around grassy meadows. You couldn't make it up.
But being a tribal Englishman, I shall be praying to every God I follow as the MRI results are released.
Well, it is Friday. Have a great Bank Holiday.