My Iberian blue moon

I’D be hard-pressed to remember the last time I watched a full 90 minutes of football. My best guess is that it was probably sometime back in the Eighties. It is also donkey’s years since I even sat through more than five minutes of a game, so it was only by accident that I saw the entire Portugal vs Spain encounter. Given that the World Cup is unlikely to get any better than that, though, I’ll be skipping the rest of it.

IT hardly needs saying that the criticism raining down on Eoghan Murphy, pictured, is richly deserved. By my reckoning, his incompetence is matched only by his arrogance. But the bottom line is this: how does he expect to solve the housing crisis when he can’t even do the basic arithmetic on how many homes are being built each year?

FORGIVE the namedropping, but I had lunch last week in London’s oldest restaurant, Rules. It made an appearance in the last Bond film, as well as turning up in several episodes of Downton Abbey. There was no sign of Lord Grantham when I was there, but there were certainly a few punters who sounded just like him.