EXEMPLARY ENGLAND’S GOLDEN SHOWER CASCADE FROM ON HIGH OVER PANAMA’S FILTHY PiGDOGS 6-1
When one lies back and thinks, as one constantly does, of England, one thinks primarily of its hats. The bowler. The topper. The trilby. The Ascot cap. The bearskin. The boater. The deerstalker. The pith helmet. Such headjoy reflects the cultural diversity of our great country, from the Morris dancers of Blackheath to the stick whittlers of the Cotswolds to the eelmongers of Essex to the rain gauge makers of Stoke-On-Trent.
Consider, by contrast, our opponents yesterday the Panamanians. They have but one hat, which, being wholly deficient in imagination, they call the Panama hat. This hat is passed around the population who take turns to wear it, one day at a time. It is a brief diversion for them, after which they must go back to their sole pastime, staring at the one other feature of their country, the canal, in the hope that they might spot a traffic cone or shopping trolley float by to enliven their existence.
Such was the wretched outcrop of humanity against whom our boys, engorged with blood and pride, were ranged. The gaping contrast was evident in the National Anthems. Our own was delivered with such gusto that plumes of semen burst forth from the shorts of every man jack of that starting eleven, creating a pleasing, fountain-like effect that would put the Parisian Tuileries to shame. The Panamanian effort, meanwhile, no doubt composed in haste following the country’s surprise qualification for the World Cup, was a pitiful, puffed up piece of pomp, whose lyrics celebrate the tenth anniversary of the nation’s armed forces receiving their first pair of boots.
The captains had a brief exchange, in which our own Harry Kane explained to his opposite number in the only language foreigners understand - English, delivered loudly and slowly - that there was still time for him to prevent a massacre by escorting his team off the field and conceding defeat. With staggering insolence, however, the swarth stood firm and so battle commenced.
The game began at a cracking pelt, our English cocksmen sallying forth time and again, the Panamanians utterly confused, regarding the ball as if it were some legless, shaved species of warthog on the loose. Within minutes, we were three to the good. Mr Gareth Southgate’s experimental line-up, a laboratory blend of the races, continues to yield dividends when confined strictly to the pitch. However, it was Mr Harry Kane, English of profile, pure of blood, unquestionable of origin, who dominated the scoresheet. I feel sure I remember his great-uncle, Colonel Sir Horace “Balls Of Thunder” Kane of the Grenadier Guards. Shortly after the construction of the Panama Canal, he happened to be stationed in the vicinity and one afternoon, fortified with brandy, mounted his horse with a view to taking the canal in a single leap. “I’ve seen worse water jumps at Hickstead, by Gad,” he cried out, before plunging into the canal some considerable length short of land and perishing. Both he and his horse were posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for their gallantry. He would have scoffed at today’s “Health And Safety” culture.
Although the Panamanians were being bested by fair means, the foul means to which this savage breed of filthy blackguards resorted to would have defied even the pen of Mr Joseph Conrad. Their penalty box was a Heart of Darkness indeed. One of their back four impeded our Jesse Lingard by hacking him down with a meatcleaver. He then produced a cauldron and taunted Lingard by boiling his severed limb in front of him, drinking from the bloody soup with a ladle. And yet despite this clear contact the referee did not see fit to take action, nor did the VAR system call back play. Fortunately, our players heeded instructions not to rise to any provocation and Lingard soon shrugged off the knock he had taken to score a wonder goal. All of which proves the old maxim; the best form of revenge is to be English.
Come the second half and such was the cricket score England were racking up that it would not have been inappropriate for the FIFA officials keeping the tally to be replaced by Mr Duckworth and Mr Lewis. The natural English superiority was born out in the nature of the English players’ surnames - Sterling, Stones - with a very clear picture emerging of the superiority of the imperial measure. One hopes that for our final group game outings are given to squad members Jason Ounces, Darren Pints, Rafael Inches. Ashley Furlong, Jack Shilling and Jermain Half-Crown.
By now, such was the disaster befalling the Panamanians, stranded and desolate and with no hope of rescue that they had started to eat each other, driven half-mad with desperation. This merely left more space in midfield and behind the back four for England to exploit.
With a quarter of an hour to go manager Mr Southgate could afford to rest players and look ahead to upcoming games, taking them the entire team off the field on 78 minutes for an early shower and bus back to the hotel to watch Reach For The Sky on Digital Versatile Disc player. His confidence that the Panamanians would not be able to find the English net even with the field to themselves was borne out. Technically, they did score a goal but since some of the Panamanian players were of Caribbean descent, there is a strong ancestral claim that they are property of the Crown, as English as the Falkland islands, meaning that any goals they score are English property also by moral right.
Another triumph, another sound reason to abandon the Customs Union and surely the only question outstanding is the exact route of England’s victory parade in May. After all, if we can dispatch a ruthless footballing force such as Panama with such ease, how much more trifling a matter will it be to dispatch the Belgians, that nation of footling chocolatiers who cannot even so much as brew a beer without retreating to the mountains and taking a vow of silence? I predict a 15-0 victory; but then, I am by nature a cautious pessimist.
When one lies back and thinks, as one constantly does, of England, one thinks primarily of its hats. The bowler. The topper. The trilby. The Ascot cap. The bearskin. The boater. The deerstalker. The pith helmet. Such headjoy reflects the cultural diversity of our great country, from the Morris dancers of Blackheath to the stick whittlers of the Cotswolds to the eelmongers of Essex to the rain gauge makers of Stoke-On-Trent.
Consider, by contrast, our opponents yesterday the Panamanians. They have but one hat, which, being wholly deficient in imagination, they call the Panama hat. This hat is passed around the population who take turns to wear it, one day at a time. It is a brief diversion for them, after which they must go back to their sole pastime, staring at the one other feature of their country, the canal, in the hope that they might spot a traffic cone or shopping trolley float by to enliven their existence.
Such was the wretched outcrop of humanity against whom our boys, engorged with blood and pride, were ranged. The gaping contrast was evident in the National Anthems. Our own was delivered with such gusto that plumes of semen burst forth from the shorts of every man jack of that starting eleven, creating a pleasing, fountain-like effect that would put the Parisian Tuileries to shame. The Panamanian effort, meanwhile, no doubt composed in haste following the country’s surprise qualification for the World Cup, was a pitiful, puffed up piece of pomp, whose lyrics celebrate the tenth anniversary of the nation’s armed forces receiving their first pair of boots.
The captains had a brief exchange, in which our own Harry Kane explained to his opposite number in the only language foreigners understand - English, delivered loudly and slowly - that there was still time for him to prevent a massacre by escorting his team off the field and conceding defeat. With staggering insolence, however, the swarth stood firm and so battle commenced.
The game began at a cracking pelt, our English cocksmen sallying forth time and again, the Panamanians utterly confused, regarding the ball as if it were some legless, shaved species of warthog on the loose. Within minutes, we were three to the good. Mr Gareth Southgate’s experimental line-up, a laboratory blend of the races, continues to yield dividends when confined strictly to the pitch. However, it was Mr Harry Kane, English of profile, pure of blood, unquestionable of origin, who dominated the scoresheet. I feel sure I remember his great-uncle, Colonel Sir Horace “Balls Of Thunder” Kane of the Grenadier Guards. Shortly after the construction of the Panama Canal, he happened to be stationed in the vicinity and one afternoon, fortified with brandy, mounted his horse with a view to taking the canal in a single leap. “I’ve seen worse water jumps at Hickstead, by Gad,” he cried out, before plunging into the canal some considerable length short of land and perishing. Both he and his horse were posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for their gallantry. He would have scoffed at today’s “Health And Safety” culture.
Although the Panamanians were being bested by fair means, the foul means to which this savage breed of filthy blackguards resorted to would have defied even the pen of Mr Joseph Conrad. Their penalty box was a Heart of Darkness indeed. One of their back four impeded our Jesse Lingard by hacking him down with a meatcleaver. He then produced a cauldron and taunted Lingard by boiling his severed limb in front of him, drinking from the bloody soup with a ladle. And yet despite this clear contact the referee did not see fit to take action, nor did the VAR system call back play. Fortunately, our players heeded instructions not to rise to any provocation and Lingard soon shrugged off the knock he had taken to score a wonder goal. All of which proves the old maxim; the best form of revenge is to be English.
Come the second half and such was the cricket score England were racking up that it would not have been inappropriate for the FIFA officials keeping the tally to be replaced by Mr Duckworth and Mr Lewis. The natural English superiority was born out in the nature of the English players’ surnames - Sterling, Stones - with a very clear picture emerging of the superiority of the imperial measure. One hopes that for our final group game outings are given to squad members Jason Ounces, Darren Pints, Rafael Inches. Ashley Furlong, Jack Shilling and Jermain Half-Crown.
By now, such was the disaster befalling the Panamanians, stranded and desolate and with no hope of rescue that they had started to eat each other, driven half-mad with desperation. This merely left more space in midfield and behind the back four for England to exploit.
With a quarter of an hour to go manager Mr Southgate could afford to rest players and look ahead to upcoming games, taking them the entire team off the field on 78 minutes for an early shower and bus back to the hotel to watch Reach For The Sky on Digital Versatile Disc player. His confidence that the Panamanians would not be able to find the English net even with the field to themselves was borne out. Technically, they did score a goal but since some of the Panamanian players were of Caribbean descent, there is a strong ancestral claim that they are property of the Crown, as English as the Falkland islands, meaning that any goals they score are English property also by moral right.
Another triumph, another sound reason to abandon the Customs Union and surely the only question outstanding is the exact route of England’s victory parade in May. After all, if we can dispatch a ruthless footballing force such as Panama with such ease, how much more trifling a matter will it be to dispatch the Belgians, that nation of footling chocolatiers who cannot even so much as brew a beer without retreating to the mountains and taking a vow of silence? I predict a 15-0 victory; but then, I am by nature a cautious pessimist.
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