EVIDENTIALLY SUPERIOR ENGLAND BIFF GERMANY IN WORLD WAR SIX 2-1
It will come as little surprise to those who are acquainted at me, be it through my memoirs, through the capacity of servitude or simply having been on the sharp end of my riding crop for some impertinence or other that I am strongly inclined to take a dim view of the German people, as those of my generation are wont to. I refer, naturally, to the 1970s, when the country recoiled into a barbarism without precedent in its recent history. This was the era in which all the talk was of the Baader Meinhof and the like, when the Germans, once proud, clipped, erect, properly suspicious of usury in their midst and boasting a tidy record in such hygienic matters as racial homogeneity fell victim to a queer, hirsute madness. I myself was taken hostage in 1972 during a visit to the city of Düsseldorf, where I was due to meet up with a certain claque of middle aged, discreet sympathisers in a certain Bierkeller, entry to which could be obtained by uttering the password “Wessel”. Owing to a surfeit of Schnapps partaken in my hotel room, however, I found myself suddenly short of bearings in my unsteady perambulations around the town, and ushered into a dark, shadowy basement in which I was forced to sit cross-legged and endure a torture beyond the imagination of less hardened civilians - I was made to listen to a fellow in a headband play the flute at me for what seemed like three days, without sleep.
I was eventually released, thanks no doubt to the intervention of the SAS. However, when eventually brought round, representatives of the German police fabricated the assurance that I had inadvertently stumbled into a pop concert of some sort by a collective of musicians of the so-called “Krautrock” genre, that the flute solo to which I had alluded had lasted a mere three hours, reasonable for the times, and had only been terminated upon my shooting the tanktopped perpetrator in the knee with my service revolver, for which the group themselves had had the brass gall to press charges. Fortunately, since Seppings, my manservant, had wrested the revolver from my hand following my discharging of it, it was decided in open court that his fingerprints proved he had been the one to fire the bullet in question and, white man that he is, he bore the brunt of the subsequent prison sentence. The slightly pained gait with which he walks to this day can be ascribed to his period in that Teutonic gaol, where the social lives of inmates was questionable, to say the least, and lubricants were often in painfully short supply, even on the black market.
It was against this backdrop of prison sodomy, the perils of inebriation and the justice meted to the musically incontinent that tonight's fixture took place. The national anthems told their own story. The home fans booed our rendition - resentful, perhaps, that we had borrowed and then refused to return the epitome of charm that is Germanic royalty – well, finders keepers – while the German anthem was intoned by their team with all the hollowness of the already-thrice vanquished. Each umlaut was winced, reminiscent of Seppings during his incarceration anticipating another perilous visit to the communal showers.
There was criticism of the import of this game, a certain downplaying of its undoubted historical significance – I can think of no recent international political event which has had more resonance than this fixture, or whose outcome was more keenly anticipated by a watching world. However, it is no exaggeration, but rather an imaginative simile, to compare this game to World War II – World War II, that is, minus the participation of Churchill, Field Marshall Montgomery, Adolf Hitler, Herman Goerring, and Douglas Bader, who, like our own, absent Frank Lampard, suffered from the handicap of not being able to use his legs in any effective way.
My one regret upon watching this game was that the England team did not line up and deliver, as they did in 1938, the Nazi salute before the start of the game. No doubt the political correctness of the liberal elite quashed this sensible proposal. However, it would have had the felicitous effect of wiping the slate of the 1940s clean, signifying a new beginning based upon the happy assumption that the events of 1939-45 never happened. Certainly, viewing the German team's first half performance in particular, one entertained the thought that if this had been the best they could muster back in 1939, they would have been as well off restricting their global military adventures to running to the Czech border, throwing pebbles at the guards on patrol then swiftly running away again, leather shorts squeaking with fretfulness between their thighs. Tonight's was not a great vintage.
As for England, their every onslaught had the Germans scurrying about in a somewhat pitiful, crybaby panic, the way their citizens did in Dresden in 1944 (in similar circumstances, John Bull, his wife Joan and their children Johnny and Joanetta would doubtless have stood in the streets, square jawed, waving their fists in contempt at the oncoming Dorniers). It was no surprise when we went ahead – by this point, the Germans would have had a better chance against Blighty in a joke-telling or irony-getting or sunbed-reserving-fairly competition. Come the second half and only Darren Bent's mistake in failing to stay upright prevented England from attaining a second goal. Bent was in no way to blame for the mistake personally - it was racial in origin. Unfortunately, in a calamity of which more later, the Germans fortuitously gained parity. Thankfully, John Terry, our Captain and guarantor of patriotic viscosity, headed the winner with but minutes to spare. Seppings, bending over to serve me upon a platter a flagon of restorative brandy, bore the brunt of my appreciation. He is under strict instructions not to wash his face for a fortnight.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that, as a psychological boost to our boys for the next World Cup, that England stage a victory celebration for the 2010 World Cup early in the new year, with the likes of Gary Neville and David Beckham holding aloft the trophy, whether sanctioned by FIFA or obtained by the SAS from their headquarters, as the bus wends its slow way through Regents Street towards Trafalgar Square.
The second is that the England team learn to shake off the sexual thrall in which they hold their Captain. I have dwelt perhaps in excess in this report on the to and fro of this game, the action as it took place, stressed too little its overarching geopolitical significance. However, indulge me just a little further as I reconstruct the events which lead to Germany's equalising goal. As the ball bounced, apparently harmlessly, towards Scott Carson, it should have been a simple matter either for John Terry to pass back or to clear into touch. However, as he shaped up, presenting his backside in the process, it was clear to me that the goalkeeper could be seen, frozen in infatuation, mouthing the words “marry me”. This only stoked the confusion, of which the Germans, shabbily oblivious to the English horror of sexual ambiguity, took full advantage. For indirectly allowing this unfortunate situation to arise, it is clear that the Football Association take but once course of action. It is clear that this Capello, mysteriously promoted from the capacity of monkey mascot to manager, be fired forthwith. He is the Weakest Link, Arrivederci.
It will come as little surprise to those who are acquainted at me, be it through my memoirs, through the capacity of servitude or simply having been on the sharp end of my riding crop for some impertinence or other that I am strongly inclined to take a dim view of the German people, as those of my generation are wont to. I refer, naturally, to the 1970s, when the country recoiled into a barbarism without precedent in its recent history. This was the era in which all the talk was of the Baader Meinhof and the like, when the Germans, once proud, clipped, erect, properly suspicious of usury in their midst and boasting a tidy record in such hygienic matters as racial homogeneity fell victim to a queer, hirsute madness. I myself was taken hostage in 1972 during a visit to the city of Düsseldorf, where I was due to meet up with a certain claque of middle aged, discreet sympathisers in a certain Bierkeller, entry to which could be obtained by uttering the password “Wessel”. Owing to a surfeit of Schnapps partaken in my hotel room, however, I found myself suddenly short of bearings in my unsteady perambulations around the town, and ushered into a dark, shadowy basement in which I was forced to sit cross-legged and endure a torture beyond the imagination of less hardened civilians - I was made to listen to a fellow in a headband play the flute at me for what seemed like three days, without sleep.
I was eventually released, thanks no doubt to the intervention of the SAS. However, when eventually brought round, representatives of the German police fabricated the assurance that I had inadvertently stumbled into a pop concert of some sort by a collective of musicians of the so-called “Krautrock” genre, that the flute solo to which I had alluded had lasted a mere three hours, reasonable for the times, and had only been terminated upon my shooting the tanktopped perpetrator in the knee with my service revolver, for which the group themselves had had the brass gall to press charges. Fortunately, since Seppings, my manservant, had wrested the revolver from my hand following my discharging of it, it was decided in open court that his fingerprints proved he had been the one to fire the bullet in question and, white man that he is, he bore the brunt of the subsequent prison sentence. The slightly pained gait with which he walks to this day can be ascribed to his period in that Teutonic gaol, where the social lives of inmates was questionable, to say the least, and lubricants were often in painfully short supply, even on the black market.
It was against this backdrop of prison sodomy, the perils of inebriation and the justice meted to the musically incontinent that tonight's fixture took place. The national anthems told their own story. The home fans booed our rendition - resentful, perhaps, that we had borrowed and then refused to return the epitome of charm that is Germanic royalty – well, finders keepers – while the German anthem was intoned by their team with all the hollowness of the already-thrice vanquished. Each umlaut was winced, reminiscent of Seppings during his incarceration anticipating another perilous visit to the communal showers.
There was criticism of the import of this game, a certain downplaying of its undoubted historical significance – I can think of no recent international political event which has had more resonance than this fixture, or whose outcome was more keenly anticipated by a watching world. However, it is no exaggeration, but rather an imaginative simile, to compare this game to World War II – World War II, that is, minus the participation of Churchill, Field Marshall Montgomery, Adolf Hitler, Herman Goerring, and Douglas Bader, who, like our own, absent Frank Lampard, suffered from the handicap of not being able to use his legs in any effective way.
My one regret upon watching this game was that the England team did not line up and deliver, as they did in 1938, the Nazi salute before the start of the game. No doubt the political correctness of the liberal elite quashed this sensible proposal. However, it would have had the felicitous effect of wiping the slate of the 1940s clean, signifying a new beginning based upon the happy assumption that the events of 1939-45 never happened. Certainly, viewing the German team's first half performance in particular, one entertained the thought that if this had been the best they could muster back in 1939, they would have been as well off restricting their global military adventures to running to the Czech border, throwing pebbles at the guards on patrol then swiftly running away again, leather shorts squeaking with fretfulness between their thighs. Tonight's was not a great vintage.
As for England, their every onslaught had the Germans scurrying about in a somewhat pitiful, crybaby panic, the way their citizens did in Dresden in 1944 (in similar circumstances, John Bull, his wife Joan and their children Johnny and Joanetta would doubtless have stood in the streets, square jawed, waving their fists in contempt at the oncoming Dorniers). It was no surprise when we went ahead – by this point, the Germans would have had a better chance against Blighty in a joke-telling or irony-getting or sunbed-reserving-fairly competition. Come the second half and only Darren Bent's mistake in failing to stay upright prevented England from attaining a second goal. Bent was in no way to blame for the mistake personally - it was racial in origin. Unfortunately, in a calamity of which more later, the Germans fortuitously gained parity. Thankfully, John Terry, our Captain and guarantor of patriotic viscosity, headed the winner with but minutes to spare. Seppings, bending over to serve me upon a platter a flagon of restorative brandy, bore the brunt of my appreciation. He is under strict instructions not to wash his face for a fortnight.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that, as a psychological boost to our boys for the next World Cup, that England stage a victory celebration for the 2010 World Cup early in the new year, with the likes of Gary Neville and David Beckham holding aloft the trophy, whether sanctioned by FIFA or obtained by the SAS from their headquarters, as the bus wends its slow way through Regents Street towards Trafalgar Square.
The second is that the England team learn to shake off the sexual thrall in which they hold their Captain. I have dwelt perhaps in excess in this report on the to and fro of this game, the action as it took place, stressed too little its overarching geopolitical significance. However, indulge me just a little further as I reconstruct the events which lead to Germany's equalising goal. As the ball bounced, apparently harmlessly, towards Scott Carson, it should have been a simple matter either for John Terry to pass back or to clear into touch. However, as he shaped up, presenting his backside in the process, it was clear to me that the goalkeeper could be seen, frozen in infatuation, mouthing the words “marry me”. This only stoked the confusion, of which the Germans, shabbily oblivious to the English horror of sexual ambiguity, took full advantage. For indirectly allowing this unfortunate situation to arise, it is clear that the Football Association take but once course of action. It is clear that this Capello, mysteriously promoted from the capacity of monkey mascot to manager, be fired forthwith. He is the Weakest Link, Arrivederci.
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