INCREDIBLE ENGLAND THRASH THE MISERABLE JEWISH HOUNDS 3-0
Some days prior to this fixture, I received upon a tray from my man Seppings a missive from the choirmaster of King's College, Cambridge, the great grandson of a Varsity colleague of mine. He had heard that I followed events in the world of Association Football closely, and was wondering if I might care to lick the end of my quill and inscribe a few elevating lines of verse which might galvanise and encourage the English team. These he would set to music and arrange for his young chorister charges. They would then perform the arrangement at Wembley Stadium, prior to the anthems. I cannot recall in their entirety the lines which I duly composed, but I do recall the chorus, which, trilled from the mouths of boy sopranos, struck me as especially poignant;
“Come away, England. Put them in a funk/Let's drown the Jews in English spunk!”
Unfortunately, Seppings was tardy in trundling the television set into my chamber – he had been scraping the stale residue out of the John Terry bucket prior to the game, he claimed, a task which he shall finish orally as a chastisement. In any case, I missed what was doubtless a stirring performance of ethereal purity, tuning in only in time to witness the two teams taking to the pitch. Out strode England, avoiding the baleful eyes of their Hebrew adversaries, accompanied by fresh-faced, excited little mascots, including a young master Shaun Wright-Phillips. Imagine that small boy's feelings when he was informed that, owing to England's lengthy injury list, he would actually be starting the game! Every 10 year old's dream come true.
The National Anthems, as ever, marked the stark contrast between our English selves and our miserable, shiftless opponents. The Jewish anthem, unless my ear trumpet deceived me, consisted of nothing but a low, contemptuous series of “Boos”, delivered collectively by the team and sections of the crowd. English supporters looked on in silent surprise and disgust – not least because of what the many thousands of Semite supporters, their tickets doubtless bought with the proceeds of usury, said of the treachery that exists within our British midst. The arrogance – see here, if you were God's chosen people, he would not have given you those noses, which in any other race would be held on with elastic.
As for the delivery of the British national anthem, it could not have been lustier or more loyal had Captain John Terry lifted his organ and discharged 21 times. Goalkeeper Paul Robinson looked especially fervent in his desire to Save our Queen – and save her he would, unless Her Majesty had the misfortune to be delivered to him via a slow back pass from Mr Gary Neville, but that is so unlikely a contingency we need hardly dwell upon it.
The game commenced, with England battering down Jewish resistance with some judiciously delivered 70 mile per hour forward passes from Steven Gerrard and some sterling work from young Micah Richards, who, once Gary Neville passes his 40th birthday, will become a deserving fixture in the team. However, as they have shown previously, in the home tie, in tedious urban stand-offs during the recent hostilities in Europe, the Israelis are an unreasonably obdurate people who do not know what is good for them, even when you explain it to them slowly, with bullhorns, to make yourself heard above the yapping of your Alsatians. It would have been most instructive for them to stand back and admire an exhibition display of attacking football, particularly from Mr Emile Heskey, whose grace and acumen in front of goal is of the sort that renders words such as “arse”, “cow's “banjo”, “a” “couldn't”, “with”, hit” and “a”, utterly superfluous. However, they proved recalcitrant and paid the price for their insolence when England opened the scoring, with of all people, our little brown mascot opening the account.
England excelled all over the park. Playing two Coles was a masterstroke, sowing seeds of confusion in the opposition. Rio Ferdinand, as ever, played with such assured confidence it is as if he was already thinking ahead to next Wednesday's game, or at the very least thinking ahead to what he might fancy for breakfast the following morning. Bacon. And eggs. Maybe poached eggs. Or boiled. Boiled is nice. With toasted soldiers. Only you mustn't over-boil the eggs for soldiers, otherwise the yellow bit doesn't go runny. And I don't like the bacon too crispy, either. Hate it when it's too crispy. Yeah. No good, that. Actually, it's all a bit confusing, I think I'll have a bowl of All-Bran instead. As for Frank Lampard, he had his most effective game for England in two years. That sly old tactical dog Steve McClaren has finally worked out how to put him to best use.
It was no surprise when England added further to their tally in the second half. The third goal, however, was marred by an obscene display of exaggeration and gross fabrication on the part of the Israelite goalkeeper – a display betraying certain tendencies that 20th historians might do well to bear in mind when chronicling some of the more controversial events of the Second World War, as fancifully recalled by the Hebrews.
As the match drew to its conclusion, a number of English fans departed early. It was clear, however, looking at the number of unoccupied seats that, so confident were a larger number of English fans that they had elected to depart the stadium prior to kick off. Very shrewd. Those who remained, however, were in for an added treat – Phil Neville and Andrew Johnson were introduced onto the pitch, solely for the purposes of knockabout entertainment, the former running around pointlessly in his red clown shoes, the latter engaged in the sort of amusing, bald head slapping antics that were a staple of light entertainment until Political Correctness strangled comedy in the United Kingdom.
Two things emerge from this fixture. The first is that, given Israel's abysmal display in front of the English goal, that the nuclear weapon they possess should be confiscated. It should be donated to some other country who might actually make some attacking use of it, and, on the rare occasions when they did, didn't send the thing sailing calamitously over the target.
The second is that John Terry's valour in playing on with, what I understand is a broken toenail, should be rewarded with a Victoria Cross. But then, Terry is that sort of player, that sort of man. Even if he had a broken ankle, he would play on. Even he had a broken neck. Or a broken penis. A penis, I say. A penis. I have read of the agonies such an injury entails and it galls me to the quick that he should even be allowed to run the very risk of them. I therefore propose that before each game, a man, a certain man of certain standing, in possession of his own manservant-cum-assistant and bucket, be employed to hand-set Mr Terry's penis in a protective cast, prior to each game, so as to minimise the prospects of injury. Seppings! The bucket. There's man's work to be done . . .
I too am usually tempted to discharge during the National (yawn) Anthem of our green and pleasant land, but my mam told me spitting was unEnglish.
Posts: 157 | From: Leicester UK | Registered: Jul 2006
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quote: see here, if you were God's chosen people, he would not have given you those noses, which in any other race would be held on with elastic.
My attempts to stifle a laugh, combined with me suffering from a bit of a cold, mean that I am now wiping up a big dollop of snot from my desk.
Posts: 865 | From: Forty yards out, in the Parc des Princes, rifled into the top corner | Registered: Nov 2002
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