The World Cup is in full swing, and despite all the fears about corruption, hooliganism, heavy-handed policing, and - worst of all - bloody VAR, it's been just fantastic. We've seen a glut of goals, oodles of upsets and a Patrice-ful of patronising punditry. Penalties are all the rage in Russia, as is cordially cleaning up after yourself, the world having been schooled on their manners by fastidious fans from Japan and Senegal.
It's enough to make you forget about the country's kleptocratic rule, what with their patchy free speech record, possible poisonings in sleepy cathedral cities and draconian anti-LGBT laws. There's nothing football can't fix!
It's not the only despotic regime the absorbing action has shifted out of focus. Amidst this festival of football, it's difficult to care about WWE's aimless summer meanderings. But being a wrestling fan is like having a terminal illness; you can try to enjoy yourself otherwise, but the thought is always nagging at the back of your mind.
That's why when Sergio Ramos rescues a tiny bird from Iran's fifty-men behind the ball, you can't help but ponder, "That's some babyface turn from the sport's most natural heel." Similarly, amidst all the hand-wringing over Tunisia's rough-housing of Harry Kane, your opinion defaults to, "It was a better spear than Edge's."
Since it can't be turned off, we've embraced it to consider the squared-circle equivalents of each of the eclectic bunch competing in Russia. For example, what makes Brock Lesnar Portugal? It ain't just the colour of his face...
Benjamin was born in 1987, and is still not dead. He variously enjoys classical music, old-school adventure games (they're not dead), and walks on the beach (albeit short - asthma, you know).
He's currently trying to compile a comprehensive history of video game music, yet denies accusations that he purposefully targets niche audiences. He's often wrong about these things.