INESTIMABLE ENGLAND THRASH INFERIOR CARIBBEANS 3-0
In a match which all observers, whether patriotic or treacherous, agree was the finest of the 2006 World Cup, England bested tonight's opponents 2-0, following a contest as tense and hard-fought as Rorke's Drift – in this case, Yorke's drift. Plucky little England eventually broke the deadlock thanks to plucky little Peter Crouch, who scored by the expedient of clambering all over the back of a black man to his winning advantage. Some cried “unfair” - namby pambies, social workers in the main – but the larger minded among us applauded Mr Crouch for reaffirming the basis of our civilisation. Had we not clambered all over the backs of black men two centuries ago, we would not have established the great plantations which are the cornerstone of this sceptr'd isle's wealth, enabling us to lead the world as purveyors of, among other things, fair play and spotted dick. The referee did not intervene against Crouch in 2006; nor did the referee of world affairs, the Lord God Almighty Himself, back in the 18th century.
I did not anticipate that we would have to re-engage in this Homeric struggle; however, since 2006, there has been a dark, Conradian twist of fate. Jack Warner, who once entertained the British nation as the kindly Sergeant in Dixon Of Dock Green, visited the Caribbean on some pretext or other and evidently went native, setting up his own, sinister federation, CONCACAF, whose headquarters are doubtless in some submarine aquadome guarded by boiler suited henchmen, from where he plots Trinidadian and Tobagan global domination, with his demented self at the helm. As England showed in their fixture against the Americans, a Bond is always far more use than a Felix Leiter in these situations – and so, it came down once more to England to fight out what was not just the most important fixture of the season but, in its symbolism, arguably the most important association football match played since World War II. This was about a clash of antithetical lifestyles; working 60 hours a week and holidaying on rainy caravan sites or working 60 hours a year and mostly idling under coconut trees drinking green cocktails. We knew which one had to prevail. Of course, it was Trinidad and Tobago, two against one – it could only be hoped that England could emulate the feat of unfancied Manchester United, who against the odds beat both Brighton and Hove Albion to win the Football Association Challenge Cup in 1983.
The National Anthems saw the unruly, indigenous team throw down the first insult, epitomising their archipelagic awfulness. They played our own, sacred anthem on what appeared to be battered dustbin lids. Had a mob of their men held our Queen at spearpoint and forcibly inserted bananas in her orifices, they could not have offered a more grotesque slight. This fired up our men. Steven Gerrard played like a man possessed, if not always of the ball, though this was of no matter to those who value patriotism and pride over actually playing with a bit of fucking intelligence and not like some bloodbrained, remedially haircutted twathead. The decision made by Fabio Capello's handlers, of which they informed him upon letting him out of the crate in which he travelled to the Caribbean, to make David Beckham captain was laudable and farsighted – the decision not to emphasise his imperial carriage by having him play in a plumed hat was, to my mind, less so. Gareth Barry had about him the composed air of a plantation owner's son who would brook no insubordination from the fields, and he it was who struck the first blow against Trinidadian and Tobagan insolence with his opening goal. There, the matter ought to have ended, with the match abandoned and the Trinidadian and Tobagan players each fined 90 minutes' wages for being away from their workplaces. However, they had the temerity to rally. These were not the smiling, grinning Caribbean types of our youths and marmalade jars. It is notable that they played Stern John, rather than Happy Joe (such are the nomenclatures of these fellows). Still, when our own Jermain Defoe (for whom an apology to his fellow English players for the behaviour of his Caribbean kind was doubtless forthcoming after the match) scored twice, the matter was as good as settled. He could even afford to spurn a third, instead aiming the ball high over the bar, presenting it as a gift to the grateful people of Venezuela. Contrast Defoe's loyalty to his English masters with that of Paul Ince, poacher turned goalkeeper for Trinidad and Tobago.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that, had Trinidad and Tobago somehow won this day, the scenes in such negro strongholds as Notting Hill would have been too much to bear – there would have been gloating, inevitably breeding, and, within a generation, following a demographic shift to their advantage, compulsory limbo dancing in the British Isles. This would not stand, not in Dorset, not in Totteridge. Now, let us press home our advantage. Let us break the Caribbean hold on Notting Hill. Let the bravest of our white citizens, who hold the future of the race at heart, move into this benighted area of West London and establish enclaves there. Perhaps our filmmakers could even make strategically insipid motion pictures, depicting the area as an exclusively white district, a serene backdrop for the romantic caperings of stammering Englishmen.
The second concerns the decision to withhold John Terry from this fixture. At first, I was appalled, and in a fit of frustration and rage, battered Seppings within an inch of his life with the bucket. When he emerges from his deep coma, his first job will be to mop up his blood and teeth from the hearth. However, I can understand the Football Association's decision. They saw what happened when Jack Warner travelled upriver to Trinidad. Could the same not happen to John Terry, his fine mind turned in those sweltering climes? One imagines him going awol, establishing some mountain stronghold, head shaved, sitting in a makeshift throne, surrounded by the skulls of Trinidadians on poles, worshipped by the locals, rocking back and forth murmuring quietly to himself, “Must forget Moscow! Must forget Moscow!” as natives dance around him chanting in unison, “Must forget Moscow! Must forget Moscow!” There he sits, the veins in his temple throbbing, his near-naked torso glowing with sweat beads, his loin cloth showing signs of engorgement as he calls for another blood sacrifice . . the bucket! The bucket . . .
In a match which all observers, whether patriotic or treacherous, agree was the finest of the 2006 World Cup, England bested tonight's opponents 2-0, following a contest as tense and hard-fought as Rorke's Drift – in this case, Yorke's drift. Plucky little England eventually broke the deadlock thanks to plucky little Peter Crouch, who scored by the expedient of clambering all over the back of a black man to his winning advantage. Some cried “unfair” - namby pambies, social workers in the main – but the larger minded among us applauded Mr Crouch for reaffirming the basis of our civilisation. Had we not clambered all over the backs of black men two centuries ago, we would not have established the great plantations which are the cornerstone of this sceptr'd isle's wealth, enabling us to lead the world as purveyors of, among other things, fair play and spotted dick. The referee did not intervene against Crouch in 2006; nor did the referee of world affairs, the Lord God Almighty Himself, back in the 18th century.
I did not anticipate that we would have to re-engage in this Homeric struggle; however, since 2006, there has been a dark, Conradian twist of fate. Jack Warner, who once entertained the British nation as the kindly Sergeant in Dixon Of Dock Green, visited the Caribbean on some pretext or other and evidently went native, setting up his own, sinister federation, CONCACAF, whose headquarters are doubtless in some submarine aquadome guarded by boiler suited henchmen, from where he plots Trinidadian and Tobagan global domination, with his demented self at the helm. As England showed in their fixture against the Americans, a Bond is always far more use than a Felix Leiter in these situations – and so, it came down once more to England to fight out what was not just the most important fixture of the season but, in its symbolism, arguably the most important association football match played since World War II. This was about a clash of antithetical lifestyles; working 60 hours a week and holidaying on rainy caravan sites or working 60 hours a year and mostly idling under coconut trees drinking green cocktails. We knew which one had to prevail. Of course, it was Trinidad and Tobago, two against one – it could only be hoped that England could emulate the feat of unfancied Manchester United, who against the odds beat both Brighton and Hove Albion to win the Football Association Challenge Cup in 1983.
The National Anthems saw the unruly, indigenous team throw down the first insult, epitomising their archipelagic awfulness. They played our own, sacred anthem on what appeared to be battered dustbin lids. Had a mob of their men held our Queen at spearpoint and forcibly inserted bananas in her orifices, they could not have offered a more grotesque slight. This fired up our men. Steven Gerrard played like a man possessed, if not always of the ball, though this was of no matter to those who value patriotism and pride over actually playing with a bit of fucking intelligence and not like some bloodbrained, remedially haircutted twathead. The decision made by Fabio Capello's handlers, of which they informed him upon letting him out of the crate in which he travelled to the Caribbean, to make David Beckham captain was laudable and farsighted – the decision not to emphasise his imperial carriage by having him play in a plumed hat was, to my mind, less so. Gareth Barry had about him the composed air of a plantation owner's son who would brook no insubordination from the fields, and he it was who struck the first blow against Trinidadian and Tobagan insolence with his opening goal. There, the matter ought to have ended, with the match abandoned and the Trinidadian and Tobagan players each fined 90 minutes' wages for being away from their workplaces. However, they had the temerity to rally. These were not the smiling, grinning Caribbean types of our youths and marmalade jars. It is notable that they played Stern John, rather than Happy Joe (such are the nomenclatures of these fellows). Still, when our own Jermain Defoe (for whom an apology to his fellow English players for the behaviour of his Caribbean kind was doubtless forthcoming after the match) scored twice, the matter was as good as settled. He could even afford to spurn a third, instead aiming the ball high over the bar, presenting it as a gift to the grateful people of Venezuela. Contrast Defoe's loyalty to his English masters with that of Paul Ince, poacher turned goalkeeper for Trinidad and Tobago.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that, had Trinidad and Tobago somehow won this day, the scenes in such negro strongholds as Notting Hill would have been too much to bear – there would have been gloating, inevitably breeding, and, within a generation, following a demographic shift to their advantage, compulsory limbo dancing in the British Isles. This would not stand, not in Dorset, not in Totteridge. Now, let us press home our advantage. Let us break the Caribbean hold on Notting Hill. Let the bravest of our white citizens, who hold the future of the race at heart, move into this benighted area of West London and establish enclaves there. Perhaps our filmmakers could even make strategically insipid motion pictures, depicting the area as an exclusively white district, a serene backdrop for the romantic caperings of stammering Englishmen.
The second concerns the decision to withhold John Terry from this fixture. At first, I was appalled, and in a fit of frustration and rage, battered Seppings within an inch of his life with the bucket. When he emerges from his deep coma, his first job will be to mop up his blood and teeth from the hearth. However, I can understand the Football Association's decision. They saw what happened when Jack Warner travelled upriver to Trinidad. Could the same not happen to John Terry, his fine mind turned in those sweltering climes? One imagines him going awol, establishing some mountain stronghold, head shaved, sitting in a makeshift throne, surrounded by the skulls of Trinidadians on poles, worshipped by the locals, rocking back and forth murmuring quietly to himself, “Must forget Moscow! Must forget Moscow!” as natives dance around him chanting in unison, “Must forget Moscow! Must forget Moscow!” There he sits, the veins in his temple throbbing, his near-naked torso glowing with sweat beads, his loin cloth showing signs of engorgement as he calls for another blood sacrifice . . the bucket! The bucket . . .
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