Dread

Christ. Sixteen hours to game time. I'm not entirely sure how much more I can take of this.

If TFC were playing a decent team - pretty much anyone other than Real Salt Lake, in fact - I could face this game. I could go to BMO confident in the knowledge that with Andrea Lombardo and Collin Samuel up front, we would have absolutely no chance of scoring, let alone winning. Really, none. They're terrible. Danny Dichio has Nedved-like fluency in comparison.

But no, we have to be playing RSL, the only team in the league that genuinely has a claim to be worse than us. The imagination begins to stir...maybe, against the worst defence in the league (and in the MLS, that's up against some pretty stiff competition), Samuel's Clydesdale-like first touches won't matter. Maybe, given a yard or two of space, Lombardo will learn how to hit a cow's arse with a banjo.

Or, more prosaically, we might get a fortuitous penalty call on one of our seemingly endless stream of long-balls to no one in particular and score from the spot.

To quote John Cleese, It's not the despair. The despair I can handle. It's the hope that gets me.

I can't wait for this game to be over.