Tonight:
4°c
So this is how it ends, as TS Eliot almost put it, not with a bang but a whimper. In fact, what should be the conclusion to David Beckham's international career barely managed that, what whimpering there was coming from those of us obliged by professional duty or misdirected enthusiasm to watch. For this was as remorselessly drab and unconscionably charmless an England display as even the years of Sven and McClaren had given any right to expect.
The Eliot poem from which that line comes is The Hollow Men, which seems an adequate description of England in Paris. Empty of ideas, vacuous of purpose, devoid of coherence and vacant of imagination, they huffed and puffed with all the aimless urgency of old.
As for the centurion, he contrived to huff and puff despite the constraint of the imaginary rope that appeared to tether him to the 10 yards either side of the half-way line. His was a pitiably inert display, and for this Fabio Capello must give thanks. At least he can now rebuild the side free from any pressure to sate the sentimental appetite.
It is possible that he will retain Becks for use as a late substitute in games England trail, in the hope that his arrival will rouse a moribund crowd and capitalise on a free-kick. But he cannot start with him in future after that.
Whoever he tries in that position, be it Shaun Wright-Phillips (again?), David Bentley (worth another look), Aaron Lennon (my own preference), or someone else, the first requirement of a wide player in right midfield is a capacity to run, and I've witnessed octogenarian amputees moving faster to catch bendy buses on the Uxbridge Road than Becks did in Paris.
What did Capello learn from this outing? Nothing at all, unless he'd somehow imagined that playing Wayne Rooney as a lone target would work against one of football's stronger nations. If so, 20 million of us could have spared him the bother, by directing him to a video of the 2006 World Cup quarter-final against Portugal.
What took place in Paris, against a weakened France, was a living death, the zombies in white achieving what may be an historic breakthrough by failing to contrive one faintly serious attempt at goal in a friendly.
Why Don Fabio took a leaf from the Steve McClaren Compendium of Imbecilic Spin by declaring himself delighted, I cannot say. But you don't win oodles of Scudetti by swooning with pleasure at 90 minutes that technically came closer to a technique being pioneered by a sleep disorder clinic than professional sport.
What he needs now is not a sequence of meaningless fixtures involving the USA and Trinidad & Tobago.
He needs a summer camp of no less than a fortnight, in which to try to instill some spirit, cohesion and mutual understanding before the World Cup qualifiers begin in the autumn.
Such a scenario, alas, requires an FA more concerned with England's renaissance than acting as silent partner to a Premier League that will never sanction anything that interferes with the commercial interests of clubs eager to swell their coffers with lucrative tours.
And so the misery goes on. These are the earliest of days, and there remains no doubting Capello's excellence. But it was difficult enough to watch Beckham's 100th at all, let alone without wondering whether any coach ever born has had the alchemical genius to turn this leaden rabble into anything resembling the metal used for the Jules Rimet trophy.
It's wrong to dismiss the impact of history boys Harmison and Hoggy
If David Beckham was the sporting week's Diana, history may judge that it fell to Steve Harmison and Matthew Hoggard to take the parts of Mother Teresa and Jeffrey Bernard.
This is not to suggest that the one is a skinny Albanian woman in a headscarf, and the other a drunken devil who wrote like an angel. I am thinking of their curious decision to depart this mortal coil within days of the Princess, thereby sacrificing 97 per cent of the obituary space they deserved.
Admittedly neither has formally retired any more than Becks, and there is a chance (particularly for Hoggy) of a recall. But given how England salvaged the series in New Zealand, their days appear numbered.
So let us carve a moment from the long Beckham goodbye to recall how England would not have won the Ashes in 2005 without either Harmison and his exquisite slower ball to dismiss Michael Clarke at Edgbaston; or (apart from all his wickets) Hoggard's cover drive which effectively sealed the decisive win at Trent Bridge.
Although neither will ever garner a minute fraction of the attention lavished on Beckham, they have something for which he might happily swap half his fortune and 99 of his caps. They played their part in England's greatest sporting triumph since 1966.
Bumbling RFU sink to new low
In the wacky race for the coveted title of "Most Spectacularly Cack-Handed English Sports Administrative Body of the Year", a new contender emerges. With the Premier League (39th Step), British Olympic Association (attempt to gag competitors over China) and others in contention, this is a crowded field.
But the dithering over whether to sack coach Brian Ashton gives the Rugby Football Union a shot.
I understand the precise political machinations involved as well as rugby's dementedly obtuse offside rule, but what seems obvious is that Ashton's boss Rob Andrew wishes to appoint Martin Johnson above him, while the current coach steadfastly refuses to work with Johnson.
All this situation can require is the sanctioning of a pay-off cheque for a man who has delighted us long enough. Undermining Andrew's authority by refusing to sign it looks like a slow-motion hospital pass.
Back tiny Tom this Christmas
Spring is upon us, and a middle aged man's fancy turns to contemplating the BBC Sports Personality of the Year ceremony in Birmingham in December.
Lewis Hamilton remains the 5-2 favourite, with Paula Radcliffe and Andy Murray next in the betting at 7-1.
The one who stands out as real value, however, is Tom Daley, last year's Young Personality, who became European 10metre diving champion in Eindhoven this week at the advanced age of 13 years and three-quarters.
Assuming Lewis chokes again at the business end of the Grand Prix season, that Andy chokes in all four Grand Slam events, and that Paula chokes to a lachrymose standstill in the Beijing smog, Tom will need no more than Olympic bronze, and possibly less, to corner the "Aargh, bless the little fella", voting market and the prize itself.
To my admittedly delusional eye, 10-1 is too inviting to resist.
