A Quest for World Domination

So there are just 22 hours left to wait before tomorrow's titanic forces battle it out to determine who will gain the ultimate victory, which comes up for grabs only once every four years: I'm talking, of course, of the epic struggle between Paul the Psychic Octopus and Mani the Psychic Parrot.

So where's the drama? Well the unlikely-named, German-based but Weymouth-born (you didn't know that, did you?) cephalopod, who I'm sure I don't need to tell you already has a 100% success rate when it comes to this year's World Cup predictions, has predicted Spain to win, whereas upstart and somewhat less humorously-named Mani is certain it's going to be the Netherlands. So, what can we conclude from this? Well, apart from possibly concluding that it's all just a load of bollocks, or that Mani knows which side his kroketten are buttered whereas Paul is just keeping his tentacles crossed he doesn't get turned to calamari, maybe we can hope for a nail-bitingly close match? Crucially, in his picture, Paul is sitting on top of the Spanish flag, but with two tentacles most definitely resting on top of the Netherlands. Perhaps this means it will go to penalties, with that Robben bloke or one or his tall blonde over-consonanted colleagues missing that crucial goal?

Not so, says newcomer Harry the Crocodile, wading in at this unacceptably late stage and devouring chicken from under the Spanish flag, which inexplicably leads his Aussie owner to declare not only that Spain will win, but that "it will be a close match - 1-0 to Spain."

So where does this leave the gamblers amongst us? Well, it would be both unwise and unfair to desert Paul after all this time and put our faith in some upstart bird with no football-based track record who currently spends his time pecking out lottery numbers in Singapore's Little India, or, worse, some narky reptile with a penchant for chicken whose fortune-telling credentials are so far unknown. Paul's choice, on balance, seems more than probable, and our own leading commentator, a man unrivalled in his skills as a crisps salesman as well as his knowledge of the game in question, agrees with him

But at the same time, you can't help but think that Paul might be getting a bit cocky. He certainly looks more than a little smug in his Daily Mail picture ("Schtuff you, Holland!" he could be saying), and maybe it's high time he was taken down a peg or two. As for Harry, well, he's probably just copying the Cocktopus, thinking he will be hailed a hero for mere plaigiarism, for which, frankly, I'd like to see him turned into some expensive handbags. As for Mani, well, he has an honest face (look at those little eyes!) and a sob-story to boot: day after day performing cheap fortune-telling tricks for passers-by from his tiny cage on a hot, dusty street. Mani is, after all, the avian equivalent of an X-Factor semi-finalist who's come from a Council Estate in Newcastle yearning for their big break.

A further selling point of predicting a Dutch win, though, is that, in my heart of hearts I'd love to see it happen. For a start, when we went to Spain a couple of years ago it was, to all intents and purposes, broken, and thus we failed miserably in climbing up to the top of Columbus and going up in a cable car as both had broken lifts. In the Netherlands, conversely, I climbed up Utrecht's Dom Tower and took in the obligatory views of the (freezing flippin' cold, but still) city below. And more to the point, two of my favourite people live there, and, in England's absence, are cheering on the chaps in orange. And anyway I don't want to give some freakish, eight-legged creature which I've always thought wouldn't look out of place in a sci-fi film the satisfaction of knowing he was right, AGAIN, and I'd be even less happy about giving some repile the wrong impression that he somehow had psychic powers when he's clearly just trying to get in on the act and has a good PR adviser. And finally - I promise, finally - it would amuse me hugely if lots of gamblers lost a lot of money because they were daft enough to place a bet on the basis of a prediction made by an over-confident sea-creature who I'll wager has never even seen a terrace or drunk tepid tea from a polestyrene cup in sheeting rain or eaten a dodgy handburger proffered from a van by a bloke called Dave in his poxy, tank-dwelling life.

So, GO NETHERLANDS! I'm off to buy an orange t-shirt, and tomorrow you will find me in the nearest bar drinking Amstel - which incidentally Camino claims, somewhat improbably, is "Spain's most popular beer". Not after tomorrow... I hope.