ENERGETIC ENGLAND WIN THE MASTER RACE BY TWO FURLONGS AGAINST GUTLESS GERMANS 1-2
Prior to the disaster they were instrumental in striking against Europe and the world in the middle of the 20th century, the Germans were every inch the paradigm of the modern, progressive state. They were at the forefront of civilisation, advanced in their social and political thinking, with strong, sympathetic links to similar nations such as the United Kingdom. Then, as their people were led astray by a collective madness, they were plunged into a dark age. I speak of 1945, and the Germany that has persisted to the present day - a nation of European Union wafflers, tree preservers, muddle-headed beatniks and Volkswagen drivers, of provocatively effeminate synthesizer collectives and decidely low quality disc jockeys, a nation whose sartorial sense, their byword during the 1930s and 1940s, has been reduced to the spectacle of grown men wearing mauve tanktops and bright yellow leggings in the shopping malls of Hamburg, a city which once marched to a prouder rhythm than its present day strains of DJ Jurgen And The Rock Till You Are Hot! Hi Energy Boom Boy Disco Club remix of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by the semites Simon And Garfunkel.
I do not deny that Nazi Germany had its faults. I often felt that Herr Goebbels' boots were not buffed to the high shine that one desires in a man of his important standing, while the Horst Wessel Lied, while always spirited in its rendition, was insufficiently Wagnerian, to my mind, truly to pump the vital organs erect. However, if one really wants to take issue with the National Socialists, then one must deplore their choosing the Germans, the Germans, of all people upon whom to confer the status of the Master Race. For it is clear that, despite the Austrian Herr Hitler's best and laudable efforts, these people are no more the Master Race than they are the Master Comedians, or the Master Vegetarians, for that matter. This was the truth that would out in the end. Indeed, as they proved during the Visigoth era, when all it took for the Romans to drive them back into the forest was to catapult dead livestock in their general direction, they are really little more than a sort of Goat People, their propensity to sprout facial and cranial hair in all manner of absurd places and arrangements proving that they have yet to understand, as a species, that being hirsute brings with it responsibilities as well as privileges.
It is small wonder that we made such short work of them in the recent conflict of 1939-45. I must admit, that as a speechwriter for the late Winston Churchill, I regret that he chose his own, rather craven text - "we shall fight them on the beaches", and so forth - when addressing the nation through the medium of wireless. I should have preferred that he adhered to the text I set out for him myself, which ran rather more as follows; "People of Britain, I urge you to roll out the barrel, for a very straightforward victory lies ahead. We shall win the Battle Of Britain with great ease, with a man with no legs leading the aerial charge, which is technically even better than beating them with two arms tied behind our backs. Yes, of course, the Germans will overrun those invertebrate pansies the Dutch, the French and the Poles, but then, let us face it, these are nations so depleted in testosterone that they envy the manhood of our own Dame Vera Lynn. And should the Germans dare to wade across the channel, their bumbling operatives will be driven back into the sea clutching their trouser seats crying "Hilfe! Hilfe!" in cracked, Teutonic falsetto wails at the first sight of our 80 year old Home Guard officers showing them a glint of their bayonet steel. So, everyone relax and tune into the Light Entertainment programme to hear "Snake Hips!" Lawson and his Syncopated Toetappers perform their own lively composition the "Golliwog Rag", while we win the war for fun." For that is, after all, very much the way things turned out.
As the teams lined up for the National Anthems, I equally doubted not that this "friendly" would turn out similarly. The German team, an odd assortment of sizes which demonstrated, perhaps, the haphazard nature of their eugenic experiments in the 1940s, did not look sanguine. What a contrast with our own boys, who, in singing the praises of our own dear Queen, were in certain cases quite clearly having to contain their tumescence, such was the ardour of their monarchism and the thinness of their shorts. No need to contest the match but contest it we did, in reluctant deference to FIFA's instistence that these games actually be played, rather than Mr Henry Winter of the Daily Telegraph determine, in his august judgement, an appropriate scoreline to be agreed upon by all competing parties, or failing that, the English.
The game commenced at a typically cracking pelt, with England as ever shrewdly electing to commit 80% of their energies into the first ten minutes of the game - the element of surprise, you see, a tactic first deployed in the late 1960s and for which England's groaning trophy cabinet is ample testimony. Within 15 minutes we were a goal up, Micah Richards (negro) passing to Frank Lampard who slammed past the German 'keeper. It is quite clear, that, like Herr Hitler in the last days of his Reich, Lampard lives in an underground bunker beneath the pitch, appearing at surface's level occasionally and surprisingly before disappearing back down the hatch again to preserve his energies and take on his essential daily pie intake. Other performances caught the eye. Michael Carrick executed a series of exquisitely angled, side footed deliveries which landed, with uncanny directness, at the ankles of the German centre backs or into the crowd, as if Mr Carrick had said to himself mentally, "Row H, seat 38" and supplied, with pinpoint accuracy. Never were the words, "pointless, ineffectual cunt who never gets criticized because no major football commentator wants to be evicted from the arse of Sir Alex Ferguson" less appropriate. Michael Owen showed that, when presented with an open goal from two yards out, fewer are deadlier than he in the art of not quite scoring. David Beckham, assuming the legs apart position in dead ball situations which announces to a fearful opposition, "You'll never guess what I'm going to do next", offered a 21 gun salute to all that is great about the English game, firing regularly and harmlessly into the air. He was not the only player to recognise the weakness of his goalkeeping opponent, Jens Lehmann. Like his fellow attackers, he made a point of deliberately delivering a series of tame, harmless shots directly into his arms, in the confidence that he would footle them as he did against Fulham and Blackburn. Such deadly psychological cunning did not deserve to go unrewarded.
Germany scored twice, the first a typically shabby tactic, going behind the Maginot Line English keeper Paul Robinson had quite clearly established. This was not cricket and can therefore be erased from the blackboard. However, come the second half, and the Germans palpably quailed as England trundled onto their pitch their deadliest weapon, their Codebreaker, their Bouncing Bomb, their Dresden Destroyer, Kieron Dyer. One saw the German players palpably blanche as he entered the field, with his formidable tally of "no goals yet but after 33 well-earned caps bound to score one soon, surely" carried like an emblem upon his shield. It was surprising that at this point there were not mass defections among the German team to the England cause, with their hapless centre backs approaching Mr McClaren on their knees, hands clasped, pleading that they had only been obeying orders from the evil dictator Klinsmann. Him and his absurdly scarved sidekick, plucked from the osbscurity of being an extra in the La Cage Aux Folles musical to coach the German team.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that we must commend the patriotism of our players, particularly the likes of Rio Ferdinand, who doubtless defied the wishes of his own, Scotch manager in his conspicuously arduous first half efforts. His departure at half time with a "slight groin strain" which may in all possibility spell the end of his lucrative club career and see him end up running a pub or some such, suggests a player for whom a zealous "country before club" spirit has always been preeminent.
The second concerns our Captain and inspiration John Terry, whom, some treasonably asserted, was at fault for gifting the Germans their second goal. Can I suggest that he be airlifted into German air space by our own Red Arrows in order to daub a very special message to our supposed European friends across the Bavarian landscape? I would recommend several gallons of semen, contributed by himself but also the 22 men and true of his squad, supplemented with white dye. the resultant liquid could be used to inscribe not a swastika, which might exceed the bounds of taste but certainly the message, visible from the skies, "2-0 (1918, 1945), 4-2, 5-1", with Terry hoisted down and guided to within 50ft above land in order to assist accuracy as he daubed the numerals. I could lend him a bucket, as well as moral, technical and physical support and a gallon or so of my own efforts, prompted at watching his nipples harden beneath his shirt as he waited in the tunnel prior to kick off . . .
Posts: 4035 | From: London | Registered: May 2002
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Classic in its intensity. And focus on a an ancient 'rivalry'! Though the Teutonic 'derby' will never lack for want of material.....
Posts: 2962 | From: The Pale, Erin | Registered: Jun 2006
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The headline sets up another fine report. The first three paragraphs especially at wailing "Hilfe! Hilfe! in a cracked falsetto as I was about to choke to death from uncontrollable laughter. Or something.
Posts: 22308 | From: one floor to another | Registered: May 2002
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David Beckham, assuming the legs apart position in dead ball situations which announces to a fearful opposition, "You'll never guess what I'm going to do next", offered a 21-gun salute to all that is great about the English game, firing regularly and harmlessly into the air.