Though to be fair that should be 'brazuca' with a small 'b' or @brazuca with a sodding Twitter account. Rise seas. Fall skies. For this is where civilisation ends...
After Zlatan lost the duel with his nemesis, the World Cup will be without a monstrous ego (with a sprinkling of insecurity). We'll be saved some of the tiring nonsense...
The morning after the morning after the night before, and a nation stands in grateful supplication before one victorious man: Roy Hodgson. Most of a nation, anyway; one imagines that Liverpool still retain a certain amount of scepticism. But more fool them! You had your chance, Scouseland! If only you'd stuck by your man, it could have been you going to Brazil.
Anyway, while Hodgson exults in the pinnacle of his career, and tries to think of a polite way of telling Frank Lampard not to worry about renewing his passport, the country can reflect on a qualifying campaign infused with an unusual air of temperance. Criticism, when it's come, has been remarkably low-key, and even the usual tabloid drivel hasn't had quite the spite or wit of previous efforts. Root vegetables have been firmly off the menu. And qualification has been greeted with muted trumpets and cautious huzzahs. It's all thoroughly peculiar, and it's all Roy Hodgson's doing. Or fault. Whichever you prefer.
Hodgson's appointment was greeted by many - including this correspondent, elsewhere - as being A Good Thing. A more modest, less demented England? Sounds ideal. But it's becoming clear that in choosing the path of self-flagellation - "Football is not science." [thwack] "If it was science, and everything was based on logic and science, I think we'd be 99% there." [thwack] "But it's a game." [thwack] "Things happen in games that you don't always want to happen." [thwack] - the FA have sacrificed something special and unique about the England team. They've drained away the madness. They've killed the goose that lays the stupid eggs.
This is all thrown into sharp relief by Harry Redknapp's autobiography, the serialisation of which has proved that you don't have to be David Peace to blend fact, fiction, and football. It's been hard not to read the extracts and dream of the England manager he could have been. Indeed, perhaps should have been. Not because he would necessarily be better - though had Redknapp been in charge of this qualifying campaign it would likely have ended the same way, since he's a half-decent manager and this was by some distance the strongest squad in the group - but because it's hard to think of anybody more quintessentially and fundamentally suited to the job. He's basically the gig in human flesh, a walking, talking avatar of the England hot seat.
Yes it would have been exasperating, and of course it would have been tiring. The man's a pillock, and a divisive one. It would have set brother against brother, and journo against fan. Bloggers would have been at one another's throats. But two things are beyond doubt. One, the football would have been a bit better to watch, recent ebullience notwithstanding. And two, the whole circus would have been tremendously entertaining, and would only have got bigger, louder, and better as the finals ticked closer.
Instead, imagine the impact all this Hodgsonian grounding is going to have on the build-up. Tiny flags tucked unobtrusively in the corners of windows. Politicians informing everybody that they'll catch the game if they can, but they've got a lot of work on, you know how it is. Adverts attempting to sell dreadful lager on the basis that they don't do trips to Brazil, but if they did it'd probably be okay, the beach would be nice, but you'd lose your wallet early on, and the plane back would be delayed, and you wouldn't like all of the food, but yeah, the locals were really pleasant, and overall you'd go again.
Think of the damage done to the nation's electronics retailers, unable to flog slightly larger televisions to excitable viewers. Think of the strain on the national pension fund, as an entire generation lives slightly longer after spending the summer drinking slightly less. Think of the English children whose first World Cup this might be, and of the shabby lives they will be doomed to lead hereafter, having never been truly inculcated in the rituals and rhythms of an English World Cup summer. They'll probably end up county cricket fans, the poor sods.
A quieter, more sensible England, led by a manager who, when he closes his eyes at night, is careful to permit himself only achievable dreams. This might be a good thing for the blood pressure of the nation. But without wanting to go too Jack Wilshere, one of the things that makes a country itself is the ridiculous things it does, to the bafflement of its neighbours and rivals. Belgium dips its chips in mayonnaise. America serves its cheese in aerosols. And England spends three months every two years whipping itself into a frenzied, parping delirium - yes, Emile Heskey can win the World Cup! - only to subside, defeated and deflated, sometimes on penalties. This is, in some ways, the point of England being England, and to pretend otherwise is to deny the very point of the whole business of countries being countries at one another.