There is a simple rule of thumb when it comes to World Cups: the best teams have the best jerseys, writes TOM HUMPHRIES

WE’RE IN the taxi. Off to look for World Cup shirts, a duty every time you work at one of these soccerpaloozza fests. There’s a little awkwardness at the start, but we are getting over it.

The IT, being a comradely sort who was down with the struggle, likes to ride in the front passenger seat with the driver so that it seems to the world we are just two buddies out for a jaunt.

Today, though, having gone to deposit the ample ass of The IT in the front seat, we have been alerted to the fact that Danny, the driver, has his lunch, his drink, his mobile phone and his newspaper on the front seat.

Always sensitive to such things like how it might appear if mighty whitey were to treat the lunch of his black friend in such a way, The IT hovers dangerously over the fruit and sandwiches as people look on in horror and CNN goes into breaking news mode.

Heroically, The IT winches himself back up to an upright position and deposits himself sullenly in the back seat, where he feels he looks like Lord Muck or Miss Daisy.

So to the motorway. Danny, still fondling his startled oranges, puts some music on. He’s a cool sort of guy. He wears a classy black leather jacket, a goatee and Malcolm X glasses. We talk a little about life in Johannesburg. He’s studying aeronautical engineering in his spare time and when he is done he is either heading to Iraq or the States to do some engineering, aeronautically.

Iraq? Apparently there’s a lot of work there.

Some rich fiddle music comes on and he turns the radio up a little. Oh God. The IT, who is celebrated for his tin ear, detects the strains of one of our national dirges. Danny really does think he’s driving Miss Daisy.

The IT slaps his new friend on the shoulder. His leather jacket is like that. You want to keep slapping it for some reason.

“Ha. You didn’t put that on for me did you?”

“Huh?”

“Danny Boy?” Horrible silence as new friend considers if Miss Daisy has just addressed him as “boy”.

“It’s not Danny Boy,” he says.

“Oh.” Sure enough, some crooner comes on. Danny asks what sort of music The IT likes. With crushing frankness The IT says house, rap and hip hop and hopes Danny will leave it at that.

“I like this,” says Danny as the crooner gets to the chorus. And Danny joins in full-throated. He’s got a fine voice, but at the traffic lights it’s embarrassing being serenaded.

“Come on. You know this song,” says Danny, who may look a little like Malcolm X but is now revealing himself to be in no way cool. So The IT joins in half-a-second late and keeps it that way because he doesn’t really know the words.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains. Maybe it would be better if the people in the other cars thought he was actually serenading me. Or being made to sing to me for the favours I’ve done. This is baaad.

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas. Oh Shit. This is one of those candid camera things. I was in one in France ’98 with an old lady taxi driver who spoke either gobbledegook or a dialect thereof as I earnestly tried to make conversation in pidgin French. The cameraman who, I was told, was filming a World Cup documentary kept egging me on. Bastard.

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders. Danny, have you heard of Crystal Swing from Cork? A brother and a sister and their rockin’ Mamma? Might be your sort of thing.

You raise me up, to more than I can be.

Thus we proceed towards the mighty whitey enclave of Sandton, like Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber.

The IT has noticed there is a simple rule of thumb when it comes to World Cups: the best teams have the best jerseys, the rest go home early or make up the numbers in the latter stages. England should forget about sticking Capello into a weighted sack and dropping him in the Thames. They need a sexy jersey. Umbro are to sex what You Raise Me Up is to acid house.

Look at the last eight. Look at the sort of pics TV directors pull down as cutaways from the action. When England are playing it’s always a fat bloke with a St George Cross painted on his face and bloodshot eyes from drinking and crying. If it’s Argentina or Brazil it’s always a group of young women who appear to have that elusive combination: the faces and bodies of supermodels allied to an interest in footie.

Now, admittedly The IT has the retarded fashion sense of one who can see that the Offaly county jersey might as well be made by Umbro but who finds the Carlow jersey quite groovy.

Anyway, look at the last eight. Brazil, Holland, Argentina, Uruguay and Spain have indisputably sexy jerseys. As a matter of personal taste I would include Paraguay there too. Ghana’s white top is a little disappointing but they have made the last eight by virtue of their away strip, a seductive red with narrow yellow stripes and one solid red shoulder. Germany are Germany and sex doesn’t come into it.

If there is one great injustice about the last eight it is that Cote d’Ivoire haven’t made it. Home and away the Coasters know how to dress.

Of the quarter-finalists, Adidas have decked out Argentina, Germany, Spain and Paraguay. Nike have assured Brazil, Ghana and Holland that their asses don’t look big in those. Uruguay have had their inside leg measured by the man from Puma.

That leaves the three Nike sides on one half of the draw with Uruguay and the four Adidas sides on the other. Adidas will make the final. Nike, who drew a curse on themselves when they exhumed poor old Earl Woods to make that unforgivably crass advertisement to rehabilitate Tiger, have surely ensured that Uruguay will make the final.

Because you want to know these sort of things, the sexier jerseys were sold out but Mexico and England were available in decent numbers. Danny gave The IT his number to call for the ride back. We hadn’t the voice for it. Found a nice sullen guy who overcharged.