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World Cup report: England v Sweden

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    World Cup report: England v Sweden

    EVERGREEN ENGLAND SMASH SNIVELLING SWEDEN TO A PULP 2-0

    Short of calling themselves Turnipland, it is hard to see how the nation we faced yesterday could have abased themselves further than naming themselves after one of the worst of the root vegetables. But then, it is is just that they have a miserably low opinion of themselves. Despite the opportunity to prove themselves in a long sequence of exhilarating military skirmishes, from the Boer War to the Cod War, they have been neutral since 1814 (a stance they maintained for long sections of this game). It is appropriate that they are kitted in yellow and blue. Yellow, the colour of cowardice, blue to denote the blue funk into which they descend when the distant drumbeat of war begins to rumble. While we of a more heroic bent swim merrily in our own blood, the Swede is more wont to retreat into his forest, there to saw down trees, cut them into grooved rectangles and have the bally cheek to call the resultant flatpacks “furniture”. Can you imagine our own Thomas Chippendale, the eminent furniture maker, when commissioned by the Duke of Atholl to construct a Padouk cabinet, presenting him with a cardboard box with four wooden legs, some sundry planks, an oblique cartoon of a grinning blob, a bag of screws and an Allen key, the package emblazoned with the word “KRËPPLO” (Swedish for “Build The Fucking Thing Yourself, I Can’t Be Arsed”)?


    It was against such a nation of furniture construction dodgers, petticoated pacifists, Brotherhood Of Man-imitating pop groups, pointlessly umlauted cities where a mortgage is required to buy a round of drinks and purveyors of mordant, car chase-less black and white motion pictures concerning young women pacing up and down rooms in wooden houses contemplating the philosophical pros and cons of throwing themselves in the lake that England were ranged this day. The national anthems were the measure of the disparity between the two nations. Our own, bellowed with tumescent verve, cameras obliged to pan along the team at above waist level so as to prevent younger viewers from seeing the raging erections sported by each and every player (a mistake, in my view). Their own anthem, “Song Of The King” (you see what they did there? An anthem about the monarch? Stole the British idea. Like Brotherhood Of Man - Abba all over again) a dirge so dismally dispiriting that several Swedish fans could be seen dangling from nooses thrown round the stadium rafters by its end.

    The game began at a cracking pelt, the Swedes as static as tall pine trees stoically awaiting to be converted into 200 cheap occasional tables, England’s knightly cocks sallying forth time and again, led by Harry Kane, quite literally in a suit of armour. I like more and more the cut of this fellow’s jib. But then, I was a colleague of his uncle, General Thomas “Thrasher” Kane, as noble a specimen of blood and guts as these isles ever produced. Not for him the aircraft carrier when it came to transporting troops to the Falkland Islands in 1982; he resolved to swim all the way to the South Atlantic, with full backpack, as a way of “limbering up” for the fray. He made a dashed fine effort too, although his body was eventually washed up on the West Coast of Ireland. He despised boats and held all those who travelled in them rather than proceed under their own steam in the deepest contempt. He was not wrong.

    England were playing the sort of football I enjoy; high, honest balls through the air rather than proceeding sneakily along the turf like snakes in the grass. The Swedes had no option but to resort to cynical brutality. Jesse Lingard, for example, was seized by one of Sweden’s back four, his limbless torso discovered at the bottom of a lake near a picturesque town, the identity of his assailant revealed not by VAR, which chose to ignore the incident, but by a painstaking, melancholic, subtitled female in a dull-looking jumper. Lingard was soon up and running again, however, thanks to the “magic sponge”.

    Come half time and manager Gareth Southgate was able to devote his team talk to canvassing his players’ opinion on which combination of tie and waistcoat he looked best in. Harry “pretty boy” Maguire held particularly strong opinions on the matter. Jordan Pickford, meanwhile, jumped up and down manfully in an attempt to reach the plate of oranges placed just out of reach on the table. As for Raheem Sterling, he went out early to practise scoring into an open net from six inches out. It’s testimony to his persistence that he very nearly succeeded with one of his several efforts.


    Come the second half and as England added to their tally like a batsman racking up the sixes, one could take one’s eye off the game and salute our fans. One admires them on so many levels. Take, for example, their adaptation of the song “September”, an unmemorable dirge by an obscure negro trio known as Earth, Wind & Fire. They have taken this unpromising material and infused it with an invigorating zest and musicality its originators could never possibly have achieved; you’d think, when sung by English fans, that it was almost as good a song as “God Save The Queen”.

    In cinereel footage of fans across the country, arms outstretched, showering themselves with lager, stomachs bulging with pride, one sees the Stout Yeomanry of This England at its best. Faces scrunched, like the expression of a man who cannot decide whether to pleasure himself with his Rottweiler against a kitchen door or cut off its head with a meat cleaver for fackin’ acting up, these are the expressions Mr Theresa May would do well to emulate when facing down Monsieur Barnier in the forthcoming EU talks. These are the facial expressions that embody England - sweltering England, pumped up with mindful optimism embodied in the sheer coherence of the slogan “Football’s coming home”. These are the facial expressions that say, “We are England, and our brains are dehydrated and violently engorged with blood. Be scared. Be very scared. For you have no idea of what we are capable of.”

    #2
    the sheer coherence of the slogan “Football’s coming home”
    Perfect

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      #3
      I bet Wingco's dreading an England-Belgium repeat, even in the bronze game. Hit the target plenty in the last one ("Europe's lay-by" deserves to enter the lexicon) but did he use up all his arrows?

      This has been by far his toughest tournament yet, old England usually gave him a head start. Still doing the business though.

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        #4
        Half time in the dressing room is exactly like that.

        Comment


          #5
          'Stomachs bulging with pride' hahaha!

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            #6
            obscure negro trio known as Earth, Wind & Fire
            Brilliant!

            Comment


              #7
              Originally posted by wingco View Post
              “We are England, and our brains are dehydrated and violently engorged with blood. Be scared. Be very scared. For you have no idea of what we are capable of.”
              This needs to be England's national motto, possibly in latin.

              Comment


                #8
                Brexit is almost worth it for that last paragraph.

                Comment

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