My thoughts on the England game could go on to form a thesis so I am not even going there. Let's just say I am singing sackapello (geddit?) at the moment.

In order to remind myself that there is something worth living for, I pulled down some Car Talk podcasts. God I miss that show. Click and Clack must have the most infectious laughter of any living beings. Some days I really do thank Al Gore for inventing t'interweb.

Okay, I lied. I cannot hold back on the football.

First, the easy one: it may be academic, but when the ball crosses the line between the goal-posts, this is what we call a \"GOAL\". Referees and linesmen would do well to mind this subtlety. I think the myopic bastards in question were from Uruguay. It's been a long time since I reached for my red button but I have dialed the co-ordinates in on Uruguay. Really. Wars have started for less. I want Uruguay at least annexed (can you annex something that is not adjacent to you or do you just claim sovereignty and commence genocide?).

Defense? OMFG? It was like Capello had ordered his bloody ritual 4-4-2 and Johnson forgot he was part of the first 4. He played out of position for almost all the game. He was not alone. Terry and Upson were caught with their trousers down more times than you can feasibly count. At times there were gaps that would have allowed a whole Army of Sherman tanks easy passage. Utterly shocking.

Midfield? Well it consisted of Lampard. The rest might as well not have turned up. Gerrard was utter toss. Barry was worse than pub football standard. Milner thought a game of rugby had started and kept kicking for touch.

Defoe was hopeless and Rooney never looked like he was likely to turn on the magic.

Substitutions? You are losing by a humiliating margin (which could have been more) so what do you do? Send on Emile \"the salmon\" Heskey? Of course. Genius. This is why Fabio gets paid the big bucks -- for the off the wall thinking. Wright Philips? Jesus H. Inspired.

The nation can now get on with the grieving it should have known was on the cards.

Do yourselves a favor -- take your head out of the oven, stop kicking the cat/child(ren), remember France and Italy went out in the group stage, and search for \"click and clack car talk podcast\".

At least we beat the Aussies at cricket, albeit that we made hard work of what should have been a breeze.

So, Le Kenny descended upon Albert Towers again on Friday, bearing gifts (merci beaucoup!)

You'll be wanting a full report. OK: There was less of him to love. People who are already slim should NOT lose a stone in 3 days, or whatever it was (that kind of stunt must NOT be repeated). We could see right away why the doctors want to fatten him up ASAP. But at least he is no longer pregnant; we have palpated his belly to confirm (it's OK, he is used to being manhandled around here). And he was looking positively spiffy, by Kenny standards. If a man has the energy to iron a shirt, perhaps rumours of his impending demise have been greatly exaggerated? (unless they gave him a free shirt with the new car... that salesman sounded very keen).

Now, we all know Kenny brings out the Jewish mother in me, right? This time, he even brought out the Jewish mother in Albert, who was doing the cooking... so it was wall-to-wall leberknoedel, latkes, and kugel (or whatever it is that Jewish mothers are supposed to cook). I tried not to push food at my guest, or say ridiculous things like: \"Sit down! Standing burns more calories than sitting!\" (it did occur to me that Kenny already has a mother). Failed on both counts (most memorably at breakfast today, when, sifting icing sugar over a piece of banana brownie, I heard myself say: \"Now, pretty please, WITH SUGAR ON TOP, have a brownie!\")

Maybe, since I am trying to lose weight and Kenny is supposed to gain, the logical thing would be for us to team up: whenever I attempt to put food in my mouth, he is to grab it immediately and scarf it down. I suppose he could give me the odd Bounty bar and some whole milk instead (which is pretty vile stuff, if you ask me, but I can drink some if I pour lots of coffee over it). Just a theory, but it might solve both our problems (sadly, they don't do fat transplants; I checked).

Oh, and the new motor is looking spiffy too (however, be warned that I know nothing about cars: if they have 4 wheels and go vroom-vroom, I'm usually happy... and if they're painted lavender or orange, I'm ecstatic).

The title is all Franglaised in honor of my good mate Louis in France. We shared a house together while I was doing my degree and then again when he came to Leeds. He is one of the most toppest of top people you will meet. He is also a brilliant guitarist who used to play in the pubs around Leeds. We had a rule in Leeds which was for one night a week, we would only talk French to get me to practice. It never worked out that way. The wine would come out and then the guitars and we would sing ourselves to death until the early hours.

On Sunday, I received a message on Facebook saying that Louis had sent me something to my private email. It turns out that the soppy old bugger had recorded a song on his computer and sent it to me as a reminder of the good old days before organs started failing, marriages came and went, and parts of our bodies started falling off at random. It's laid down as four tracks and is ace. I have it on my iPhone now. I should ask him whether I can put it on here.

In other world shattering news, I will never again mock the people who paint the number of their house on their garbage cans. A few weeks ago, we got a new and exciting brown bin for plastics and tin etc. I put mine out for the first time on Monday. All it had in it was about a squillion empty milk containers and a glass bottle. It had no number painted on it. Unfortunately, neither has anyone else's. I went to reclaim it on Monday evening only to find that there were two left -- one that was filled with crap that shouldn't have been in there so the garbage men had left it and an empty one. Unfortunately, the empty one was definitely not mine. I opened it up to throw yet another milk carton in and it absolutely minged of ale. For those of you not in the UK, you may not know that we are having quite the heat wave at the moment so this stale ale must have been festering for days. If that is not enough to put you off beer, nothing is. Foul. I am going to have to rinse it out and perfume it before painting my house number on it so as to avoid a repeat. All very interesting stuff eh?

Ooh, I spent yesterday tootling about in my new car. I love it, love it, love it. I've installed my iPhone gubbins and paired it with the Parrot and it appears to work brilliantly. I've decided that I will only plug in the satnav on a need basis -- most of my journeys involve knowing where I want to go and how to get there. I will break it out for special occasions.

Alors, I must away to see my consultant. I'm not expecting to learn much today given the gastroscopy is not until next week but we shall see.

Be good and if in doubt, ask yourself \"What would Kenny do?\". If the answer is Kenny would do it, chances are you should not. A little mantra for you.

Toodles and snogs.

Update: Got to love this consultant. \"Well Kenny, I am going to break every rule of medicine in the book and tell you not to exercise, just sit around and watch TV or something that doesn't burn calories. Also, you need to eat lots of fry-ups, steaks, burgers, pies, chocolate, cakes -- basically everything everyone else should avoid.\" I shitteth ye not. I always knew that a Bounty bar counted as one of your five a day. If you throw in a snickers, that's two.

The bad news is that my ferritin levels are way too high. Break out the leeches. As I have said before, I always thought that was what people in Wigan did when they were looking for something they'd lost. Apparently it has two meanings. I have donated a further armful of blood to be examined and the camera on a stick (with copious amounts of valium) awaits. Get in.

I will spare you all any further ranting about last night's match. After the epic fail that it was, the past few weeks' torrid medical happenings and the prospect of being carried to the barbecue in a long box, I felt I owed it to myself to start to enjoy things rather than either tolerate them or sit at home moping about how shite I felt.

Nski had a phrase that, although it was rather crude, is suitable for adaptation. Her version is \"You have obviously never experienced 'thank God you're not dead' sex\" in matters related to carnal pleasures. I have warped it slightly. My version is \"You have obviously never experienced 'thank God I'm alive' car buying.\"

Yup, mes petits champignons, El Ken gets a new car on Monday. It's not brand new because only the filthy rich can afford to do that. It's a couple of years old and already I am going to make the bold assertion that it is the best car I have ever owned. I kind of liked its looks and interior. What sold me on it was the test drive. I pulled out of the salesroom and hit Wigan Road -- within 30 seconds I was utterly wowed by how lovely it was to drive. I did a bit of urban driving and then hit the motorway for a junction. This thing drives itself. I was utterly smitten. My biggest concern was whether I would be able to manoeuvre it into the yard at the back of the house, so I drove there and completed the move first go. By the time I got back to the showroom, I was ready to sign any dotted line anyone cared to proffer.

As of Monday, subject to nothing going wrong (and I doubt it will), I will be driving a black 2007 Dodge Caliber 2.0 SXT Automatic. It's a lot higher up than my existing car which makes me happy but is a lot bigger in every other respect too -- I may have to park with extreme caution for a while until I get used to driving something that size again. Driving an SUV in the US is easy because the roads are big and the parking spaces bigger. This is not SUV sized but it is not far off.

It has all the bits I miss about my Bravada -- leather seats, cruise control, parrot hands free kit -- all that jazz that makes a difference. All I will need to do is get a doohicky for my iPhone and work out the best way to mount my satnav. It drives like a Yank car too, not like a European car with stiff suspension and everything carefully arranged for inconvenience. You don't notice it shifting at all. There's an armrest placed exactly where you would want it. My favorite ever car to drive in the US was the Buick, for its floating feeling as you drove. This feels much the same. In short, I love it.

Now I suppose I need to do the tedious insurance jig (a job I will gladly do for the reward) and wait for Monday.

You should be screaming with excitement! I am. Can we say w00t? Yup.

I realize that if there is one thing more annoying than a morbid Kenny, it is a happy Kenny so I apologize for any shock this may have caused you.

ABSOLUTELY SHOCKINGLY AWFUL

For once I give the British press full freedom to unleash the dogs of vitriol. I want questions asked in the Commons. I want heads on sticks. Utterly fucking useless (apologies for the language kiddies). I hope we go out so we cannot disgrace ourselves any further.

I have never seen an England side play so w*nk.

If you need me, I'll be the guy with his head in the oven.

I want you all to raise a glass of your beverage of choice and wish the Waaart the fondest of wishes and a happy bidet. 0x2a today. I sent him an email yesterday which would have made for an excellent post but for the fact it was a tad too personal. Instead of publishing it, I may rip a few soundbites from it later.

Enjoy your day McWyke.

My God. You lot are worse than children. Here I am sat alternating between football, Mariska-watch, macramé and secular basket-weaving and every couple of moments my iPhone goes ping, informing me of yet another email complaining about my lack of punditry/bloggage.

There is a reason for my lack of commentary on the football. I watched all of the first five games in their entirety. Day one was, with the exception of the South African goal, about as big a snore-fest as you are likely to see. Utterly awful.

Day two saw Argentina playing nicely (as apposed to their usual strop-fests) because they were winning. I heard tell of people lauding their performance -- I say piffle, balderdash and hollyhocks. The Nigerians are hardly a force to be reckoned with so I'd rate the Argentinian performance as a C+. Their defense looked vulnerable at times and the embarrassment of riches they have as a strike force were tepid at best. By any other player's standards Messi played well but by his standards, he was just about passable. Fine Nigerian goal-keeper.

Greece were awful. The less said about that game, the better.

Engerland, Engerland, Engerland. What can I say? Did I not tell you it was the wrong type of ball? Rob Green proved it. Rooney was industrious but average. I have no idea what Fabio was thinking playing King and Milner. King is like the Bryan Robson of the modern era -- bits of him fall off as he makes contact with grass. Why would you even consider taking him to South Africa? Milner had been sick for a few days yet started and was outclassed for the time he was on the field. Two very dubious selection decisions right there. Let us not put too much stock in the first game (which was potentially the hardest based on recent form) and look forward to a more coherent performance. I say that and then I remember our midfield on the left and right are pants whoever we select from the squad.

It grieves me to say it but I think Johnson (Liverpool) should be singled out as the guy who put barely a foot wrong all game. I have always rated him, and he is proving me even more right than even I am capable of being.

I took yesterday off football although did catch a few minutes of Slovenia and Algeria. Not much to worry about with either of those. Neither of them looked like they had ever seen anything spherical before, let alone tried to kick it.

The highlight of the tournament for me thus far has been some comedy names. Tshabalala very quickly was greeted with cries of Sha-la-la-la (à la Sisters of Mercy Vision Thing) from me. I want Utd to sign the man. I have a billion songs for when he's on the ball. And because I'm juvenile, I'm a big fan of Shittu too.

Two final comments: the vuvuzela has not annoyed me quite as much as others on the basis that I am adept at using the mute button on my TV (which others seem incapable of doing). In fact, Mick McCarthy's monotone drone as he states the blatantly-frickin'-obvious is more annoying.

Unlucky Oz. For a moment there, I thought you had the Krauts on the ropes. It was a very brief moment.

Aha! You thought you had got away without any world cup commentary from me didn't you? WRONG! It serves two purposes: for me to vent my spleen on how bloody awful our national side are every single damned world cup and to reduce my readership numbers by half for the duration of said ~~debacle~~ spectacle.

First up, it has not gone unnoticed by your favorite pundit, El Ken, that the preemptive excuses have started emanating from Rustenburg for why we were beaten by the USA on Saturday. I listened to an interview with that bastion of male greatness (sic), John Terry, yesterday morning. \"We don't like playing at high altitude. Our mouths get dry and we lose our breath.\" Poor little darlings. El Ken says get over it you overpaid lummox. After that, there were complaints about the new ball. Germany's Bundesliga, of course, played the whole of last season using that ball. The English, of course, didn't so can quite legitimately complain that it's \"not fair\" and cry to their mums.

Don't get me wrong. El Ken will be in a state of hypertension until we inevitably lose on penalties to a ball punched in from the penalty spot (and I mean punched in by hand).

The one thing that this world cup has right is the song. Okay, not particularly the song, but the artiste in question. Is there a channel showing the concert tonight? I'm up for a bit of Shakira ogling today. It will be the closest thing to totty I have seen since I left hospital.

Speaking of hospitals, what games are being played on the 22nd and 30th? Because I buy a sensible newspaper, I appear not to have a wall chart. Does anyone have the usual spreadsheet that goes around that they could send me? On the 22nd, I am with a consultant during the afternoon for prodding and poking purposes. That should not take too long. However the 30th could be bad. I'm in and under anesthetic for an hour or so, so will undoubtedly be kept in overnight like every time I have had a general so will probably miss two games. AHA! The 30th is a rest day. Allah-frickin'-Akbar.

So be warned. Brace yourself for El Ken telling you how it is over the next few weeks.

PS -- My itchy trigger finger is very, very itchy. Any deviant comments will be deleted/modified.

Seeing I am only leaving the house for milk and pies at the moment (even then, the clothes are going atop my pyjamas so I can quickly return to a state of relative ease) I have three observations and two questions for you.

-- Kate Silverton did the one o'clock news today sans spectacles. It felt like I had left the house without my watch, all rather odd.

-- Journos, are you trained to nod inanely as an anchor asks you a question or when an interviewee is answering one? It is a highly irritating habit so please cease and desist immediately.

-- What is it with the new government and putrid shades of green ties? David Cameron seems to favor a snot/lime combination for every occasion at the moment. Others have worn similar shades. Kenny the style-guru strongly disapproves.

-- Who is the blond Tory MP who sits behind DC in the commons? I think she must be a newbie. Don't quote me on this, but I might just fancy her a little bit.

-- Finally, one lass I really do fancy is the girl in the Virgin weekend getaway ad (you know, the one heading to meet her boyfriend Tom at Manchester Piccadilly). She's gorgeous. As I would have said 25 years ago, "tilt".

I am still in discomfort, thanks for asking.

Okay you horde of ghouls on the pavement. I am now sufficiently nourished to chastise you all. This nourishment has been brought to you by Galloway's meat and potato pies -- arguably the best pies in Wigan -- and about a gallon of milk a day (whole milk, none of your jessy white water).

It's good to see that even while I whine away about how much grief I am having that you can all hold a poll as to whether or not I am permitted to snuff it. As I always say about show business, never let a good tragedy get in the way of an even better poll. My bet is that if I wrote a cron job that posted here every couple of days with inane bollocks like \"today my goldfish had PMS\" or \"tomorrow I'm off to axe-murder Bill Oddie by the light of dawn with my good mate Icarus\" while I lay ice-cold under six feet of finest coal slag, you lot would quite happily continue to comment on how I needed to get out more so your lives could be lived vicariously. Should I put a bulletin board back up? Really, where did the love go? More to the point, where were the grapes, chocolate and flowers? Eh?

While I'm here, I may as well tell you about the ward I was on, or rather its residents. There were seven beds/inmates. Two of us were sane. The two that, once the night-time uproar commenced, were so sane, they found themselves outside freezing their nads off and smoking cigs while vociferously expounding theories on how we could shut the rest of the muppet squad up so we could sleep.

To my right was a bloke who they must have based the character Jim Royle on -- a scouser who appeared to make a living from moving from one NHS bed to another and from consultant to consultant. He proudly told us of the 10 medical appointments he had in the next two weeks. Then he told us about his sister in Alicante or some other such dreary backward hovel of a non-place. His family sounded huge yet not one of them turned up to see him. He engaged everyone in conversation at the most banal level possible in a effort to find a commonality which he could exploit to open up one of his lengthy scouse monologues. Worst of all, he kept calling me Dave. It is true that my first name is David but I have never, ever used it. I have always been Kenny or the real world equivalent thereof. You call me Dave, I spike your potassium fizzy stuff with phentenol -- there's the deal. Take it or leave it.

There was a frail youngish lad who must have been in his early thirties but looked like he was in his late forties. He was a sad case. While you knew just by the look of him and the way he watched you that, had he been fit, he would have stabbed you and robbed you blind, you could not help but feel sorry for him. I'm guessing but only years of hard drug use does that to someone. He literally was waiting to die.

He had a mate in the next bed. Apparently they had both been in since last year. His mate was schizo. He paced all day and then carried on at night, chunnering away to himself. At night, he took to calling the police about the nurses which caused fracas after fracas. When the police got fed up and called the nurses to get him to stop, he called his girlfriend and got her to call the police. His girlfriend appeared twice in a week and a more scary woman I have never set my eyes on...a face that would frighten a police horse, indeed a face that would curdle water.

The other two inmates were elderly chaps. One saved his gastric emissions for visiting time. It got to be such that I could time a bout coming on to within a second. It was kind of like a hand-grenade -- you know, you hear the clunk of it landing and know you have seconds until the whole place goes up. This guy would start off with When Harry Met Sally moans and then climax with the most gut tearing farticus maximus. It truly was a humbling routine. I have yet to perfect it.

The final inmate was a very old chap who awoke for visitors only, if you could call it being awake. It never ceases to amaze me how much fight to live the human spirit has. If I were this guy, I would have rolled over, curled up and let the sands of time swallow me for good. Hell, I was in there for something that was treatable albeit that due to a mix up in communications, I did spend a good few hours thinking it was curtains and wondering how long I had -- point is, I got to the point that is the hardest point and opted for door C. This guy just slept. Unless it was between the hours of 01:00 and 04:00 where he slept and screamed \"Worms\" repeatedly until the nurses appeared, switched on all the lights and me and my sane mate grabbed our cigs and did one.

So there you have your stats. 2/7 were howling mad, 3/7 diabetic, 2/7 sane, 3/7 waiting for the long train.

Not really very funny is it? Sorry about that. I had great plans but as soon as I started typing it dawned on me that there was something fundamentally immoral about satirizing a bunch of real people with real families and even more real problems.

All I can say is when life gives you lemons, just thank God you have Kleenex Triple Velvet in your bathroom and not the NHS bog rolls.

Oh, and you're still all a bunch of gits. Have a nice evening!