EXEMPLARY ENGLAND'S GOLDEN GENERATION SHOWER USA 2-0
In 1944, as a senior officer in the Covert British Operations Unit, I witnessed from my seaborne position to the rear the D-Day invasion of Omaha Beach by American troops, as they sought to loosen the Nazi grip on the European mainland. I saw as these helmeted “GIs” waded ashore, in wave after wave, many of them drowning, many of them mown down by German troops stationed in nests overlooking the beach, still many more of them succumbing to bullets dispatched by myself from my trusty revolver. For, although the Americans were technically on the British side, the more farsighted among us anticipated the deleterious influence these jazz crazed, swaggering hat cockers were likely to have upon Civilisation if not discreetly culled whenever possible during the great conflicts. These, you must understand, were the sort of people who complained if chewing gum were not featured on the menus in restaurants, the sort of people who were as incapable of pronouncing the letter “t” as they were of comprehending the chortlesome quips of “Big Hearted” Arthur Askey, the sort of people whose golf ball sized brains were unable to make sense of the word “plough”, and, like the superfatted infants they were, decreed that it be spelt “plow”. No doubt, by their logic, the word “cough” should be spelt “cow”, to avoid confusion. Coughs versus cows. That was what was at stake in this vital fixture tonight.
Vital, indeed it was, the most important England game to have taken place since 1776, when our former colonial subjugates achieved a temporary state of independence. We have been biding our time since then. This was the clash of the world's Big Two, both significant players at the Yalta Summit in 1945, which saw the post-war world sensibly carved up by British civil servants using their pencils and set squares, to harmonious subsequent effect. And, like Yalta, it reduces the forthcoming Euro 2008 convention of our European cousins to a mere trifle by comparison. For, what were the Europeans doing as Churchill and Truman got together to determine the fate of the globe? Dreaming up the Eurovision Song Contest, that is what, in the hope of corruptly establishing dominion in the field of histrionic ballads. It was we, the English, however, who would have the final say. Franco, metaphorically speaking, could bugger Cliff Richard until he was blue in the face and red raw in the crevice, it would have no bearing on wider matters. That was the essential message of tonight's fixture. Euro 2008, Cliff Richard's sore arse. It is much of a muchness.
The National Anthems indicated the contrast between the two teams, the two nations. The British rendition was delivered manfully, without frills, braying out the hope that our cherished Elizabeth be saved as surely as an innocuous Croatian long distance shot by Scott Carson. The American anthem, meanwhile, performed by a negress, was not so much sung as very slowly vomited, as if regurgitating a typically nutritious American breakfast of waffles, molasses, honey, blueberry jam, whipped cream and treacle. The USA team clasped their hands to their heart and sang along lustily, with pitch microphones picking up goalkeeper Timothy Howard's contributions; “Land of the . . . COCKFERRETS!! . . .and the home of the . . . CUNTBUBBLEFARTERS!!”
It is, of course, inherently absurd that the USA should be playing their masters England at the game of Association Football and it was the job of the referee and his assistants to go around to each American player and confiscate from them any helmets, padding, or bats they might have imported onto the field of play in their burgerbrained imbecility, as well as to explain to them that the game would not cease every two minutes to provide for ten minute breaks for advertisements for dog shampoo. The game began at a brisk pelt, with England providing a masterclass in how almost to string two passes together without the ball bouncing loose for a fucking throw in to the opposition. The Americans provided no worries – it was anticipated that, in keeping with their war record, they would not themselves actually participate in the game until midway through the second half. “Manager” Fabio Capello, hired as an amusing joke to show that even a clueless Euro-Simean could be nominally put in charge of the England team, so flawlessly and clockwork-like do they already operate as a unit, wisely did not object when his bowler hatted, organ grinding masters decree that young prospects David Beckham and Jermaine Defoe be given the chance to show what they are made of, and what they might contribute to the team when they hit their stride and their early forties.
There were other notable performances. Wes Brown, who owns two European Cup medals, showed how and why he is twice the player Bobby Charlton is, who owns but one - proof, if proof were needed, that God exists. Frank Lampard paid a touching tribute to his late, departed mother by playing himself as if he no longer existed, while Wayne Rooney showed the doubters that he is, indeed, England's angriest, hairiest, most frustrated potato.
However, it was John Terry who was, as ever, England's inspiration. There is little I can say about him that was not conveyed more eloquently than Alan Shearer's genitals, bulging through the thin fabric of his grey slacks during the half time interval. Terry may have erred in the Champions League Final but that is because he was saving himself for this, the far more important fixture, in which, with one nod of his head, he bulged the net and bulged trousers other than those of Mr Shearer with his efforts.
Two things emerge from this fixture. As New Yorkers mass nervously in Times Square looked on anxiously at the ticker-tape reading. “0-2 . . . ALL IS LOST, ALL IS LOST”, it is clear that America's temporary assumption of independence from the Empire has been conclusively discredited. It is high time that the British Ambassador present his compliments to the incumbent Mr George Bush and insist that governorship of the United States be handed over to a British Royal – Prince Edward, perhaps, who could juggle the role of American overseer with the running of his small theatre company – or face the wrath of his military brother, Prince Andrew.
The second is that the nation must go down on bended knee and beg forgiveness from John Terry, our cocksman, our veritable Drake, who upon his own, personal Golden Hind sallied into the fray and bested the benighted foe this night. He laughed at the Americans on the night of September 11, he has every right to laugh at them again for imagining that they could subdue his proud spirit. We must go down, or one must be appointed to go down. I shall go down, in search of succour, the succour of satisfaction, the very succour, the very sucking of the cocksman, the . . . Seppings! The bucket! . . .
In 1944, as a senior officer in the Covert British Operations Unit, I witnessed from my seaborne position to the rear the D-Day invasion of Omaha Beach by American troops, as they sought to loosen the Nazi grip on the European mainland. I saw as these helmeted “GIs” waded ashore, in wave after wave, many of them drowning, many of them mown down by German troops stationed in nests overlooking the beach, still many more of them succumbing to bullets dispatched by myself from my trusty revolver. For, although the Americans were technically on the British side, the more farsighted among us anticipated the deleterious influence these jazz crazed, swaggering hat cockers were likely to have upon Civilisation if not discreetly culled whenever possible during the great conflicts. These, you must understand, were the sort of people who complained if chewing gum were not featured on the menus in restaurants, the sort of people who were as incapable of pronouncing the letter “t” as they were of comprehending the chortlesome quips of “Big Hearted” Arthur Askey, the sort of people whose golf ball sized brains were unable to make sense of the word “plough”, and, like the superfatted infants they were, decreed that it be spelt “plow”. No doubt, by their logic, the word “cough” should be spelt “cow”, to avoid confusion. Coughs versus cows. That was what was at stake in this vital fixture tonight.
Vital, indeed it was, the most important England game to have taken place since 1776, when our former colonial subjugates achieved a temporary state of independence. We have been biding our time since then. This was the clash of the world's Big Two, both significant players at the Yalta Summit in 1945, which saw the post-war world sensibly carved up by British civil servants using their pencils and set squares, to harmonious subsequent effect. And, like Yalta, it reduces the forthcoming Euro 2008 convention of our European cousins to a mere trifle by comparison. For, what were the Europeans doing as Churchill and Truman got together to determine the fate of the globe? Dreaming up the Eurovision Song Contest, that is what, in the hope of corruptly establishing dominion in the field of histrionic ballads. It was we, the English, however, who would have the final say. Franco, metaphorically speaking, could bugger Cliff Richard until he was blue in the face and red raw in the crevice, it would have no bearing on wider matters. That was the essential message of tonight's fixture. Euro 2008, Cliff Richard's sore arse. It is much of a muchness.
The National Anthems indicated the contrast between the two teams, the two nations. The British rendition was delivered manfully, without frills, braying out the hope that our cherished Elizabeth be saved as surely as an innocuous Croatian long distance shot by Scott Carson. The American anthem, meanwhile, performed by a negress, was not so much sung as very slowly vomited, as if regurgitating a typically nutritious American breakfast of waffles, molasses, honey, blueberry jam, whipped cream and treacle. The USA team clasped their hands to their heart and sang along lustily, with pitch microphones picking up goalkeeper Timothy Howard's contributions; “Land of the . . . COCKFERRETS!! . . .and the home of the . . . CUNTBUBBLEFARTERS!!”
It is, of course, inherently absurd that the USA should be playing their masters England at the game of Association Football and it was the job of the referee and his assistants to go around to each American player and confiscate from them any helmets, padding, or bats they might have imported onto the field of play in their burgerbrained imbecility, as well as to explain to them that the game would not cease every two minutes to provide for ten minute breaks for advertisements for dog shampoo. The game began at a brisk pelt, with England providing a masterclass in how almost to string two passes together without the ball bouncing loose for a fucking throw in to the opposition. The Americans provided no worries – it was anticipated that, in keeping with their war record, they would not themselves actually participate in the game until midway through the second half. “Manager” Fabio Capello, hired as an amusing joke to show that even a clueless Euro-Simean could be nominally put in charge of the England team, so flawlessly and clockwork-like do they already operate as a unit, wisely did not object when his bowler hatted, organ grinding masters decree that young prospects David Beckham and Jermaine Defoe be given the chance to show what they are made of, and what they might contribute to the team when they hit their stride and their early forties.
There were other notable performances. Wes Brown, who owns two European Cup medals, showed how and why he is twice the player Bobby Charlton is, who owns but one - proof, if proof were needed, that God exists. Frank Lampard paid a touching tribute to his late, departed mother by playing himself as if he no longer existed, while Wayne Rooney showed the doubters that he is, indeed, England's angriest, hairiest, most frustrated potato.
However, it was John Terry who was, as ever, England's inspiration. There is little I can say about him that was not conveyed more eloquently than Alan Shearer's genitals, bulging through the thin fabric of his grey slacks during the half time interval. Terry may have erred in the Champions League Final but that is because he was saving himself for this, the far more important fixture, in which, with one nod of his head, he bulged the net and bulged trousers other than those of Mr Shearer with his efforts.
Two things emerge from this fixture. As New Yorkers mass nervously in Times Square looked on anxiously at the ticker-tape reading. “0-2 . . . ALL IS LOST, ALL IS LOST”, it is clear that America's temporary assumption of independence from the Empire has been conclusively discredited. It is high time that the British Ambassador present his compliments to the incumbent Mr George Bush and insist that governorship of the United States be handed over to a British Royal – Prince Edward, perhaps, who could juggle the role of American overseer with the running of his small theatre company – or face the wrath of his military brother, Prince Andrew.
The second is that the nation must go down on bended knee and beg forgiveness from John Terry, our cocksman, our veritable Drake, who upon his own, personal Golden Hind sallied into the fray and bested the benighted foe this night. He laughed at the Americans on the night of September 11, he has every right to laugh at them again for imagining that they could subdue his proud spirit. We must go down, or one must be appointed to go down. I shall go down, in search of succour, the succour of satisfaction, the very succour, the very sucking of the cocksman, the . . . Seppings! The bucket! . . .
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