Whether I got the line-up of the two semi-finals wrong or not, my assessment of their outcome was equally as wide of the mark.  Spain, at best, scraped through into the final and, whilst they are pure magic when on song, it seems that they are, just now, a little off-key. 

Italy continue to jinx Germany in major competitions.  It is reassuring for an Englishman to know that, just as we usually seem to suffer adversely under the Teutonic cosh, so too do they have a problem with the Italians.  It seems crazy to me that, despite the key to Italy’s success being broadcast to the Germans before the match they still failed to find a way of snuffing out Pirlo’s creative influence during the game.  Perhaps he wasn’t, as he was against England, allowed to roam in total freedom like a wild prancing stallion (no accident that Ferrari is Italian too) and given free rein over acres and acres (or perhaps hectares) of grassland, but neither was he neutralised. 

And what of Mario Balotelli?  Great player or bad boy, saint or sinner, what was it going to be?  Recently I had the dubious privilege of sitting in a court room, listening to a murder trial for nine days, and I have had my fill of expert witnesses talking about personality disorders whether it be ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) or Dissocial Personality Disorder and watching this enigmatic Italian, whose character has doubtless already been shaped by the upset and confusion of his early life, I wanted to analyse him rather than assess his football.  Against Germany he was brilliant and his two goals simply blew them away!  Cesare Prandelli, whether because Mario had cramp or maybe because he had a premonition that his striker still had the opportunity to press the self-destruct button in the closing minutes of the game, withdrew him so that he would survive to reappear on Sunday; how that performance unfolds will entirely  depend on who turns up on the day – Dr Jekyll or Mr Hyde!  I watched in dismay as his teammates rushed to Balotelli’s side in an attempt to include him in their post-match celebrations and to manifest their delight in his performance.  It’s as if Prandelli has already left them in no doubt that this skittish thoroughbred needs to have his self esteem massaged.  Like his Manchester City boss Roberto Mancini, I am sure that he realises that Balotelli’s impact on Sunday will be more a matter of psychiatry than physiotherapy.

Now we wave farewell to Poland and funnel our attention towards Kiev on Sunday.  Alas Angelika Merkel will not be there fawning over Boateng her black player, in her matronly way; see how we embrace all nations now as brothers she might have been saying, unlike Adolf who pouted and stamped his foot as Jesse Owens gave graphic lie to the ideal of Aryan supremecy and, of course, they have Odzil besides reflecting the fact that millions of Turkish migrant workers settled in West Germany during the years of the fatted calf. The land east of the Rhine is almost, these days, as multi-racial as England.  I remember how, all those years ago, Andrew Young the Black American politician, diplomat and civil rights activist complained that English football didn’t embrace racial equality.  I think the real reason why black faces were absent from the team was simply because their owners weren’t good enough.  Unlike the positive discrimination shown towards black cricketers under the rule of the ANC administration in the Rainbow Nation that policy has never really been necessary nor even desirable in English football.  There is no danger of the black face becoming an endangered species in the English team, just that elusive ingredient talent!

But no Germany, no Boetang and no Angelika!  Instead possibly we have the prospect of the two Marios, Balotelli and prime minister Monti.  Might the Spaniards be represented by their King and might a victory for them on Sunday be reason again for all Spaniards, whether they be in Madrid or Catlalunian Barcelona to make common cause in joyous celebration.