Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

It's a bright, crisp winter morning here in Johannesburg and I'm heading off to Rustenburg for England's first game tonight, my ears still not-unpleasantly numb with the echoes of yesterday's non-stop chorus of vuvuzelas.

What a day that was - whatever follows now and whatever criticisms start clinging to the tournament, Friday was one for the history books. I spent the whole day in Soweto and I can't remember witnessing such a sustained display of pure joy. I hope we managed to convey something of the mood in

Thanks to Mama Dzedze from Thokoza - a place of enduring poverty, energy, new wealth and liberation history - who let us film in her living room, fed us tea and cake, and then let us re-charge our satellite equipment in her kitchen. "I wasn't much of a football fan," she said. "But I am now." I will never forget the delirious roar that swept from her sofa, and out across the narrow, crowded streets of her neighbourhood when South Africa scored that first goal.

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