No folks, I am not referring to the miserable end to England’s participation in the minor debacle that has been taking place at the World Diving and Bad Refereeing Championships, South Africa.

I will leave all of that gnashing of teeth, hand wringing and wailing to the outraged tabloids. They are quite good at outrage aren’t they?

The way I see it, the England team looked to be about the 14th or 15th best side in the tournament, so a worthy outcome I feel.

In my humble view, when you have a squad of 23 multi multi multi mega multi millionaires attempting to pull together on a team, it will be fraught with difficulty. For example, if an inside forward in his early twenties, who has already released two autobiographies, and who earns over £100,000 per week, misses a scoring opportunity and puts in a fairly abject performance for his team in the World Cup, well he can always console himself by the wonderful reminder that he has just earns the equivalent of the GDP of Lesotho in the time it takes him to brush his teeth.

And who cares if England don’t qualify for the quarter finals, he might think. Sure he will probably get a mere pittance of a performance related bonus. He can instead simply release a timely book through his agent:

‘What really went on in South Africa - My Story. The Real Story’.

Coin a few shillings for the book - a darned sight more than a World Cup goals bonus at any rate.

Holiday on a beach.

Maybe buy one of these with his change. Then it’s back to the Premiership in August and back to the gravy train.

It reminds me of a typical US team in recent Ryder Cups, made up of mega rich stars who are individuals to a man. The don’t get paid much money for the appearance. The overriding emotion that comes across to me is:

‘Do I really need this?’

The motivation is minimal and hence failure is inevitable.

So now why don’t we all move on. And watch the media monsters hurtle headlong towards poor Andy Murray at Wimbledon. If he came from somewhere like Slovenia, I am convinced he’d be currently going for a third consecutive title. But this is just the way things are.

I recall Geoff Hurst once said that the morning after England won the World Cup in 1966 that the morning papers on the next day had a small 2 inch paragraph in the bottom corner of the front page, It read:

“England Win World Cup - See Back Page”.

I would love a return to those times.

Anyway enough, enough. You made me ramble again!

Back to the other, more interesting robbery.

I was back in the village of my childhood at the weekend. A one street, one horse town of 1,000 inhabitants. A village that has been badly decimated by factory closure and the austere measures that have arrived since the financial crisis in Ireland bedded in for the long haul.

Not exactly a prime location for a bank robbery you would think. But I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures: Two hooded robbers, each with a hand gun, one waiting in a stolen souped up Toyota Corolla and the other with the task of making the forced ‘withdrawal’. I wonder did they draw straws?

Hoody number one emerged with his bag of swag from a terrified and petrified customer area in the provincial bank. His accomplice revved his engines to ready for the explosive escape, but just at the point of getaway an extremely foolish lorry driver, a local man, a self styled ’man of the people’ - one of the few people in the village who appears to be getting meaningful work - decided to block their passage and hence parked his lorry directly across the main street. Every village has their own Noel Edmonds. He is our Noel Edmonds.

It was at this point my mother was emerging from the next door newsagents with her bits and bobs and some groceries. Expecting to hop breezily into her nippy Opel Corsa and move on to the local hairdressers, she instead walks into a standoff between a parked articulated lorry and two gunmen in hoodies with a bag of swag and a pressing need to get the hell out of Dodge. Quickly realizing she left her bullet proof vest, she dived back into the newsagents. My mother is fit you see. She does Aqua Aerobics.

Thankfully the reverse gear engaged and the baddies made their alternative escape down a side street.

A few days later the thieves were apprehended. Sadly a couple of foolish local scally wags, who it turns out are a little bit more than scallywags.

The real positive is now that my mother has some wonderfully gripping material to share with her mates at Aqua Aerobics, and doesn’t have to talk about her dear son for a week or two.

If that wasn’t enough excitement.

With the return of the Prodigal Son to his home village, I looked forward to catching up with school friends and to regale them and wow them with tales of the big City. So we meet in a local hostelry, and naturally I make a big show of buying a round of drinks.

I confidently push two €20 notes over the counter to pay for the first round of refreshments.

And with that my decent from hero to zero came rapidly.

The stout yeoman of the bar politely informed me that the notes were actually of the counterfeit kind.

I was shocked and horrified.

I am still shocked and horrified.

And will be for some time to come.

I write on a weekly basis on the finest money related website there is around, and I am wantonly brandishing fake dosh all over the land.

Enough lawlessness for one weekend I hope you will agree!