Snazzy flicks, samba-style nutmegs, the beautiful game as it should be played. The Copa America is with us. Or is it? Not having much to do while cricket is off air and certainly not willing to put that wretched shelf up in the kitchen that I had allegedly promised 'er indoors, I have been making myself comfortable waiting for a promised feast of football.

To date, the best entertainment has been listening to Paul Merson and Gus Poyet giving their half-time verdicts. It's great to report that Poyet's English has improved since his time at Spurs while Merson will always have the stigma as having English as his second language behind the pattoir he currently churns out.

As for the football, a wet afternoon in Mansfield is more appealing than the rubbish that has been served up to date. The pitches are unplayable (bumpy), the players are totally uninterested and the atmosphere more akin to a doctor's waiting room. And Venezuela as hosts? A country with no football tradition, we must be Caracas to watch it. But watch it, of course we do.

'A wet afternoon in Mansfield is more appealing than the rubbish that has been served up in the Copa America to date'


Rugby League, now there's a real sport, not like the sewing circle they call Rugby Union. And Bradford Bulls showed us the way to play the game as they annihilated Leeds Rhinos on Friday.

What I like about League is the way the sport bucks current fashion trends. While footballers' shorts have got longer and longer in recent years (presumably some media luvvie considered the game should go back to the 1950s branding), League players' shorts are as short and tight as they ever were. You certainly won't die wondering, why don't the players cut out the middle man (so to speak) and just have a jock strap and save on the laundry bill? The referees' and touch judges' luminous purple outfits, on the other hand, look like they have been colour co-ordinated with the late Liberace's bathroom.

On to the jewel in the crown of BBC TV's sports portfolio - showjumping from Hickstead, sorry Wimbledon. And of course, it never rains, it pours, and when there is no action on court, the ubiquitous Sue Barker holds court. Ms Barker is to broadcasting what Liam and Noel Gallagher are to etiquette. Reminding former doubles champion Cliff Drysdale that she once played with him (oh dear), she then brought up the topic of how he had played on a Saturday and then went to get married. "We won't ask how the honeymoon went, Cliff." Correct Sue, it's best not to.

To Las Vegas (metaphorically, rather than literally) for the Las Vegas Desert Classic. Nope, not a Bob Hope golf tournament, but darts. Yes, it's that time of year when the very best of British sport proves to our cousins over the pond that we Brits are fatter, more stupid and have bigger tattoos (and that's only the players' wives). Will Kevin Painter's trajectory be influenced by the time difference? Will Phil "The Power" Taylor be put off by Vegas' lack of culture in comparison to his home town of Stoke? Could newcomer Mervyn King fit into a US polling booth? All will be revealed from Wednesday onwards.

Finally, as footballers and their wives fill five-star beach resorts with trashy novels and the Spanish equivalent of an Asda barbecue, the dying breed of former dinosaurs battle it out in the five-a-side Masters tournament which less-than-neatly helps Sky to mind the summer gap. The sight of Chris Kamara and Don Goodman waddling after a ball that rests no more than ten metres away is an enduring image. People paying to watch this kind of stuff live is one thing, but sad old gits like me assuming the recline position in front of the box is another. Still, if it gives me an excuse not to put the shelf up.