This morning's Guardian headline: Let The Agony Commence. So very true. There was shouting, there was overheating, there were tears, and naturally there were cocktail sausages. And onion rings and happy face biscuits and chipsticks. Vital ingredients for a six-year-old boy's party at home.

Boy's bash was from 3pm, with some other event kicking off an hour later. To be fair he and his seven little mates largely looked after themselves, alternating between picking up assorted weaponry from upstairs and boinging up & down on the £40 bouncy castle (still out back, representing an entire nation's feelings in its now deflated state). Much delayed pass-the-parcel -- soccer Pez dispenser up for grabs -- finally happened at half-time.

What with all the refilling of individually named Fruit Shoot bottles and attending to minor injuries ("Theo's dad, Liam jumped on Theo"), completely missed the Rooney incident, though did witness the Lampard effort that Barnes-Wallaced over the bar.

Worst aspect of the penalties was that tiny ray of hope when Portugal missed two in a row. Perhaps we'd live to fight another day? Maybe, just maybe, this would be the one? Nope. At least the little lads each went away with a souvenir of the occasion, comprising:

• Chupa Chups lolly
• self-assembly propellor driven airplane
• squirty gun
• black 4Gb iPod Nano laser-engraved with child's name & party date
• Drumstick lolly
• small pot of Play Dough
• rocket balloon
• piece of dinosaur birthday cake

Out tonight: got second half on pause with France 1-0 up on Brazil. They wouldn't dare to dump the Canarinho, would they?