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World Cup Report - England v Tunisia

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    World Cup Report - England v Tunisia

    EXCEPTIONAL ENGLISH LIONS RAMPANT EXTERMINATE AND EFFACE FROM THE EARTH PESTILENTIAL TUNISIA 2-1

    Watching the coverage of this evening’s fixture on what I can only describe as the Tunisian Broadcasting Corporation, such was the reluctance of commentators such as the simean traitor Keown to condemn the swarthy curs ranged before England, their behaviour as low as the hole in a French toilet, I found myself contemplating the North African country in the round. Tunisia is an arid nation, composed mostly of sand, camel faeces and further stretches of sand. Its people are nomadic by nature, wandering around they do in a vain search for something remotely diverting to break up their daily routine of squatting and hawking up mucus. It is one of the boons of Brexit that we shall soon be able to export our principal commodities outside of Europe, as we are currently obliged to to do, under the auspices of Belgian gnomes bearing clipboards. One of our first trades should be to export traditional, authentic British rainfall to nations such as Tunisia, enabling them to experience the cooling, refreshing, joyous sensations of a February in Clacton-On-Sea. Dozens will die in the stampedes to buy up the first lorryloads of bottled rain, strictly limited to encourage further rioting, as Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg looks on, smiling, from his high bamboo vantage point in his plumed hat.

    With Prince Philip having only eight days ago celebrated his 97th birthday, it felt tasteless and ill-timed to say the least to lower our British cocks to having to penetrate lowly opposition such as Tunisia. But this tournament is being held in Russia after all, still smarting at the thrashing our Light Brigade administered to the Russians, led by Lord Cardigan in the Battle of Balaclava, which saw the Victoria Cross awarded to Colonel Pullover, Captain Jersey and Lance Corporal Scarf. Tunisia are, however, as one BBC commentator put it far too politely, a “lesser nation”, lacking the sensibility and grace a more evolved people would have to forfeit the match under the circumstances.

    It was against such unscrupulous, conniving blackguards, however, that England were pitted. The National Anthems were, as ever, the measure of the disparity. Our own was brayed with such gusto that small ballboys were on hand to provide a hasty change of shorts prior to kick-off, while the Tunisian dirge reminded of a hastily assembled platoon marching in circles before proceeding to fall one by one into a ditch dug as part of the country’s first ever sanitation system.

    England could have carried on standing and singing the National Anthem for the first 20 minutes of the game and still been 3-0 up, with their querulous, blundering Tunisians scoring three own goals as their habitual bartering descended into impetuous scuffles. As it was, the game began at a cracking pelt. Such pace. I was reminded, especially as the game went on, of my school chum later Major General Sir Gerald Alfrey, who was the first Briton to take part in the Greek “Marathon” in 1892. He sprinted the first 600 metres; he looked up and saw that his racing opponents were fully 300 metres behind him. This was a tremendous morale booster, contributing him to his completing the race in a remarkable 23 hours 59 minutes and four seconds, a personal best and the first human being, English at any rate, to complete the marathon in under a day.

    A goal swiftly followed from England’s current pride, Mr Harry Kane. I personally doubt that is his real name; Darren Ramsbottom is my guess. But the name he has chosen, with its connotations of English bluffness and the general benefits and delights of corporal punishment has me standing erect with approval. The demoralising effect of this on the opposition was akin to that achieved when British soldiers in a besieged garrison strewed tin tacks from the turrets to repel their barefooted North African insurgents in better times.

    As England sallied further and further forward, I was impressed by manager Mr Gareth Southgate’s team selection. This clearly involved a programme of selective interbreeding, doubtless under strict FA supervision which, while effective for the England team could not, of course, be applied to society at large but which for physiological purposes, paid dividends.

    Come the second half and with England commanding a vast lead by the only statistic that counts (military victories from 1805 onwards), there was only a niggling feeling that were it not for exceptionally adverse circumstances and the general, worldwide pervasive phenomenon of Tunisian Privilege, perpetrated by weak officials and swarthophiles in high office, we could have extended our lead still further. One factor was the imbecility and obstructionism of Tunisia themselves. By constant, cynical, niggling tactics such as tackling English players and not allowing them a clear route to goal, they failed to understand that their role was to act as a guard of honour, allowing England’s stars clear and safe passage without let or hindrance into the penalty box.

    A further factor was the weather. It is well known that Tunisians as a people are so accustomed to hot conditions that they can go 40 days without water. For this reason, the fixture should have been played in January in Stoke-On-Trent, so as to negate any unfair advantage.


    Ultimately, however, England secured the victory that establishes for all our satisfaction the existence of a clear, pure, uncrossable, watery divide between Africa and Europe. Never shall it be breached. Finally, to venture into the humorous, I should like to emulate a Norwegian commentator of old. I muster all that I can think of Tunisia and its icons and say as follows; Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper. Your boys took a hell of a beating.

    #2
    Oh lordy. "swarthophiles."

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      #3
      If you can manage to get that on Twitter, I reckon you could start a war.

      And of course, Bravo.

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        #4
        RIDIN IN LIKE



        Last edited by jason voorhees; 18-06-2018, 23:33.

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          #5
          led by Lord Cardigan in the Battle of Balaclava, which saw the Victoria Cross awarded to Colonel Pullover, Captain Jersey and Lance Corporal Scarf.
          *goes off to make replacement cup of tea*

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            #6
            An absolutely fantastic read.

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              #7
              Oh, what have past tournaments been without wingco's match reports...

              Comment


                #8
                No Mention of Stebbings. Hope he's OK.

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                  #9
                  Originally posted by wittoner View Post
                  No Mention of Stebbings. Hope he's OK.
                  Or Frank Lampard. Mind you, he was fairly anonymous yesterday.

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                    #10
                    Aye, Derby managers on World Cup panels aren't what they used to be...

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