ENGLAND PREVAIL AGAINST OLD ARYAN ADVERSARY DESPITE BROADCASTING TREACHERY AND MANSERVANT'S BUNGLING
And so, this tournament draws to a close – and what a grand three weeks it has been. What imperishable footballing memories we have been given to cherish. Wayne Rooney's nuptials, with a view to improving the national stock by the thrusting of his perspiring buttocks; the continuing and fascinating saga of Steven Gerrard and the whole “will he/will he” stay at Liverpool question; and enduring images of the wife of Mr Ashley Cole stepping out of a car and stepping into a building; absorbing rumours that Frank Lampard, like a latterday Caesar in reverse, is set to move to Italy, a move which reminds of our sale to a foreigner of Tower Bridge, so poignant is it to lose a national treasure who will prove so little a disappointment to its purchaser.
Now, all it needs to crown all of this is for England to step up and collect the trophy as European Champions of 2008. It is, of course, quite insulting, and typical of officious European pedantry, that we should be expected to play in the final in order to “prove” to a gallery of blazered UEFA gnomes that we are entitled to the cup, and somewhat ironic, given that so bungling has been their stewardship that the trophy turns out, mystifyingly, to have been in the possession of the Greeks for four years – no doubt it fell to an English dog to discover its whereabouts. However, on balance, it is necessary that England participate in the final, in order to silence the fringe of crazed conspiracy theorists who peddle the heretical notion that England's innate footballing superiority is somehow in doubt. (Suggestions have emerged, for example, doubtless from the same lunatics who assert that the moon landings never happened, that England never actually qualified for this tournament. A sanatorium awaits these wretches, where they can be trepanned back to their senses). Play the game we must, as play the game we always do. Then, once it has been scraped of feta mould, the trophy can be duly presented to us by the toad Blatter.
It only remains to discover which of the teams – Germany or Spain – has volunteered to make way for England to take their place in the final. My recommendation is Spain. It is a miracle they have made it this far; customarily, they throw away their chances of progression like a donkey from a church bell tower around about the quarter finals. That they have reached the final must be puzzling not least to the Spaniards, as if finding themselves, contrary to their expectations, on the point of completing the construction of a hotel. However, as Sir Francis Drake demonstrated, the Spanish, while adept at bullfighting, are rather less effective at John Bull fighting. It is small wonder that they sat out World War II. They did not fancy their chances then, and, unless it were agreed that John Terry take to the pitch with a ribboned spear protruding from his neck, bleeding slowly to death (Seppings! My spare combinations), they would not fancy them now. The British lion versus the Spanish flea – it would be no contest. Better then, on balance, for us to face Germany. This is a nation which retains a half a yard of British bayonet steel lodged up its collective sphincter – hence the customary twinges of pain with which their speech is randomly inflected, as indicated by umlauts. They do, at least, display a strange appetite for more of the same punishment, even though it has already been meted out to them once.
As Seppings trundled the television set into my chambers, I asked him to confirm which of the teams would be making way. Gulping in that vaporous manner he has been wont to of late, he nodded and gibbered to the effect that this evening's opponents, will, indeed, be the Germans. Upon spotting him discreetly inserting a video tape into a cassette recorder attached to the television set, I demanded of him what the blazes he was up to. He stammered that he was taking the liberty of recording tonight's game for posterity. Hmm. An acceptable proposal, though I set about Seppings in any case with my riding crop, for taking liberties. Hauling his welted carcass vertical, he effected the necessary technical arrangements and the game could commence – Euro 2008. England versus Germany.
It is a shame for younger English viewers, and typical of UEFA's highhanded shortsightedness, that the ceremony of presenting the trophy to England did not take place prior to the game, in order that they might see it before their bedtimes. However, they were treated to renditions of the respective national anthems. The umlaut in the Germans' pronunciation of “über” seemed particularly emphatic and agonised, as if in wincing in anticipation of a further insertion of steel. It did the heart proud to see the England line up, among its number Rio Ferdinand, Ashley Cole, Steven Gerrard, and a recalled David Beckham. As for the Germans, yet another cap for Michael Ballack – a pity for him that he and his countrymen would be required, so to speak, to take it in hand to a certain Mr Marshall following the game – all part of the Plan.
The game began at a brisk pelt, with Gary Neville marking his return to the England line-up with a hallmark piece of play as thoroughly English as corned beef – the violent punt of the ball up the right wing to no one in particular, whose apparent muscleheaded pointlessness has the effect of sowing confusion into foreign opponents; thoughts such as, “why the fuck do they always do this, five minutes into a fucking game? Do these skillophobic fucking morons have any sort of fucking national coaching scheme, or do think mastery of basic footballing technique is on a par with learning macramé, or fucking what?” Astonishingly, just several minutes into the game, it was the Germans who took the lead. The culprit was Portsmouth's Sol Campbell, recalled for this fixture, whose indolent negligence in the penalty box surely calls for a national debate on the vexed topic of pigmentation. My suspicions were confirmed when, at the beginning of the second half, Campbell appeared on the pitch in a German shirt, playing for the other side.
Happily, however, England pressed on, with Beckham making a mockery of talk of his retirement, picking out a recalled and rejuvenated Michael Owen several times, with a series of entirely unexpected crosses. It came as no surprise when Owen equalised, latching with customary alacrity onto a judicious header from Barmby (whose recall, following his selfless decision to work among the destitute trawlermen in the rancidly piscine ambience of Hull is well deserved). Still less of a surprise was it when Gerrard shaped up to shoot and, cleverly confounding the car park attendants who ran for cover when they saw it on the big screen outside the stadium, buried the ball low and true into the back of the net.
Twelve minutes earlier, however, the transmission of the game had been temporarily interrupted by what Seppings later explained away as a technical malfunction, when the screen suddenly revealed an 11 year old girl, cheeks red as if having been chased away by an orchard owner for attempting to scrump apples, apparently converting a goal against a team in playing in the German colours. I cannot account for this. However, Seppings made good the fault and so the second half began. England once again were on the attack and with the Germans bumbling about amusingly like befuddled camp guards cursing themselves for having lent all those wheelbarrows and garden spades to those now-missing English POWs who seemed like such friendly chaps, it was only a few minutes before Michael Owen added a third to England's tally. A fourth swiftly followed, and Euro 2008 glory was imminently asssured. When the sensibly recalled Emile Heskey added a fifth, with cameras cutting to sensibly reinstated manager Steve McClaren (and his Swedish assistant, whose name escapes me as properly as Douglas Bader escaped from Colditz), victory was clearly ours. However, at this point the transmission seized up. Thereafter, we were treated to the bizarre spectacle of a Spanish team playing out a victory against a team of German unknowns, the final whistle blowing, and the Spanish – the Spanish! - being presented with the cup. It was akin to being plunged into a European nightmare of straight bananas and compulsory pilchards for breakfast. Under a rain of thrashes from my riding crop, Seppings scrambled to attend to the matter. He pulled from the video cassette recording contraption a mangled tape – he blathered some apology about its having malfunctioned – but his imbecility notwithstanding, my ire is concentrated upon the broadcasting channel who, it is clear, are guilty of treachery most foul. Having failed to attain the rights to the Final, this rogue channel evidently went to the trouble of staging a rival “final” of their own, a hastily arranged fixture between the perfidious Spanish and a group of disaffected, mercenary German players, even going so far as to stage their own trophy ceremony.
They are fooling no one. No person of sentience will have any truck with their fantasy. In the real world, it is England's David Beckham who holds the European trophy aloft, flanked by the Class of 2008 – Seaman, Barmby, Neville, Scholes et al, with the managerial team of Steve McLaren and Sammy Lee looking on. Only the absence of John Terry from the victorious line-up is puzzling (I assume Frank Lampard plays – he generally does. For all I know, he could be in the room with me right now – such is the character of the man). I can only assume that he suffered a strain of some sort, perhaps a groin strain, in the warm-up to the match, obliging him in to spend the game in the treatment room, naked and prostrate, being slowly and expertly massaged by the England physiotherapist. Had the offending broadcasting channel shown this, in a live feed, I could almost have forgiven their perfidy. But this Spanish-German charade? Seppings! My ink and my sharpest quill. But first, the bucket . . .
And so, this tournament draws to a close – and what a grand three weeks it has been. What imperishable footballing memories we have been given to cherish. Wayne Rooney's nuptials, with a view to improving the national stock by the thrusting of his perspiring buttocks; the continuing and fascinating saga of Steven Gerrard and the whole “will he/will he” stay at Liverpool question; and enduring images of the wife of Mr Ashley Cole stepping out of a car and stepping into a building; absorbing rumours that Frank Lampard, like a latterday Caesar in reverse, is set to move to Italy, a move which reminds of our sale to a foreigner of Tower Bridge, so poignant is it to lose a national treasure who will prove so little a disappointment to its purchaser.
Now, all it needs to crown all of this is for England to step up and collect the trophy as European Champions of 2008. It is, of course, quite insulting, and typical of officious European pedantry, that we should be expected to play in the final in order to “prove” to a gallery of blazered UEFA gnomes that we are entitled to the cup, and somewhat ironic, given that so bungling has been their stewardship that the trophy turns out, mystifyingly, to have been in the possession of the Greeks for four years – no doubt it fell to an English dog to discover its whereabouts. However, on balance, it is necessary that England participate in the final, in order to silence the fringe of crazed conspiracy theorists who peddle the heretical notion that England's innate footballing superiority is somehow in doubt. (Suggestions have emerged, for example, doubtless from the same lunatics who assert that the moon landings never happened, that England never actually qualified for this tournament. A sanatorium awaits these wretches, where they can be trepanned back to their senses). Play the game we must, as play the game we always do. Then, once it has been scraped of feta mould, the trophy can be duly presented to us by the toad Blatter.
It only remains to discover which of the teams – Germany or Spain – has volunteered to make way for England to take their place in the final. My recommendation is Spain. It is a miracle they have made it this far; customarily, they throw away their chances of progression like a donkey from a church bell tower around about the quarter finals. That they have reached the final must be puzzling not least to the Spaniards, as if finding themselves, contrary to their expectations, on the point of completing the construction of a hotel. However, as Sir Francis Drake demonstrated, the Spanish, while adept at bullfighting, are rather less effective at John Bull fighting. It is small wonder that they sat out World War II. They did not fancy their chances then, and, unless it were agreed that John Terry take to the pitch with a ribboned spear protruding from his neck, bleeding slowly to death (Seppings! My spare combinations), they would not fancy them now. The British lion versus the Spanish flea – it would be no contest. Better then, on balance, for us to face Germany. This is a nation which retains a half a yard of British bayonet steel lodged up its collective sphincter – hence the customary twinges of pain with which their speech is randomly inflected, as indicated by umlauts. They do, at least, display a strange appetite for more of the same punishment, even though it has already been meted out to them once.
As Seppings trundled the television set into my chambers, I asked him to confirm which of the teams would be making way. Gulping in that vaporous manner he has been wont to of late, he nodded and gibbered to the effect that this evening's opponents, will, indeed, be the Germans. Upon spotting him discreetly inserting a video tape into a cassette recorder attached to the television set, I demanded of him what the blazes he was up to. He stammered that he was taking the liberty of recording tonight's game for posterity. Hmm. An acceptable proposal, though I set about Seppings in any case with my riding crop, for taking liberties. Hauling his welted carcass vertical, he effected the necessary technical arrangements and the game could commence – Euro 2008. England versus Germany.
It is a shame for younger English viewers, and typical of UEFA's highhanded shortsightedness, that the ceremony of presenting the trophy to England did not take place prior to the game, in order that they might see it before their bedtimes. However, they were treated to renditions of the respective national anthems. The umlaut in the Germans' pronunciation of “über” seemed particularly emphatic and agonised, as if in wincing in anticipation of a further insertion of steel. It did the heart proud to see the England line up, among its number Rio Ferdinand, Ashley Cole, Steven Gerrard, and a recalled David Beckham. As for the Germans, yet another cap for Michael Ballack – a pity for him that he and his countrymen would be required, so to speak, to take it in hand to a certain Mr Marshall following the game – all part of the Plan.
The game began at a brisk pelt, with Gary Neville marking his return to the England line-up with a hallmark piece of play as thoroughly English as corned beef – the violent punt of the ball up the right wing to no one in particular, whose apparent muscleheaded pointlessness has the effect of sowing confusion into foreign opponents; thoughts such as, “why the fuck do they always do this, five minutes into a fucking game? Do these skillophobic fucking morons have any sort of fucking national coaching scheme, or do think mastery of basic footballing technique is on a par with learning macramé, or fucking what?” Astonishingly, just several minutes into the game, it was the Germans who took the lead. The culprit was Portsmouth's Sol Campbell, recalled for this fixture, whose indolent negligence in the penalty box surely calls for a national debate on the vexed topic of pigmentation. My suspicions were confirmed when, at the beginning of the second half, Campbell appeared on the pitch in a German shirt, playing for the other side.
Happily, however, England pressed on, with Beckham making a mockery of talk of his retirement, picking out a recalled and rejuvenated Michael Owen several times, with a series of entirely unexpected crosses. It came as no surprise when Owen equalised, latching with customary alacrity onto a judicious header from Barmby (whose recall, following his selfless decision to work among the destitute trawlermen in the rancidly piscine ambience of Hull is well deserved). Still less of a surprise was it when Gerrard shaped up to shoot and, cleverly confounding the car park attendants who ran for cover when they saw it on the big screen outside the stadium, buried the ball low and true into the back of the net.
Twelve minutes earlier, however, the transmission of the game had been temporarily interrupted by what Seppings later explained away as a technical malfunction, when the screen suddenly revealed an 11 year old girl, cheeks red as if having been chased away by an orchard owner for attempting to scrump apples, apparently converting a goal against a team in playing in the German colours. I cannot account for this. However, Seppings made good the fault and so the second half began. England once again were on the attack and with the Germans bumbling about amusingly like befuddled camp guards cursing themselves for having lent all those wheelbarrows and garden spades to those now-missing English POWs who seemed like such friendly chaps, it was only a few minutes before Michael Owen added a third to England's tally. A fourth swiftly followed, and Euro 2008 glory was imminently asssured. When the sensibly recalled Emile Heskey added a fifth, with cameras cutting to sensibly reinstated manager Steve McClaren (and his Swedish assistant, whose name escapes me as properly as Douglas Bader escaped from Colditz), victory was clearly ours. However, at this point the transmission seized up. Thereafter, we were treated to the bizarre spectacle of a Spanish team playing out a victory against a team of German unknowns, the final whistle blowing, and the Spanish – the Spanish! - being presented with the cup. It was akin to being plunged into a European nightmare of straight bananas and compulsory pilchards for breakfast. Under a rain of thrashes from my riding crop, Seppings scrambled to attend to the matter. He pulled from the video cassette recording contraption a mangled tape – he blathered some apology about its having malfunctioned – but his imbecility notwithstanding, my ire is concentrated upon the broadcasting channel who, it is clear, are guilty of treachery most foul. Having failed to attain the rights to the Final, this rogue channel evidently went to the trouble of staging a rival “final” of their own, a hastily arranged fixture between the perfidious Spanish and a group of disaffected, mercenary German players, even going so far as to stage their own trophy ceremony.
They are fooling no one. No person of sentience will have any truck with their fantasy. In the real world, it is England's David Beckham who holds the European trophy aloft, flanked by the Class of 2008 – Seaman, Barmby, Neville, Scholes et al, with the managerial team of Steve McLaren and Sammy Lee looking on. Only the absence of John Terry from the victorious line-up is puzzling (I assume Frank Lampard plays – he generally does. For all I know, he could be in the room with me right now – such is the character of the man). I can only assume that he suffered a strain of some sort, perhaps a groin strain, in the warm-up to the match, obliging him in to spend the game in the treatment room, naked and prostrate, being slowly and expertly massaged by the England physiotherapist. Had the offending broadcasting channel shown this, in a live feed, I could almost have forgiven their perfidy. But this Spanish-German charade? Seppings! My ink and my sharpest quill. But first, the bucket . . .
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