EMPIRICALLY EXCELLENT ENGLAND ROUT EXCESSIVELY GOAL-PRONE UPSTART GERMAN WHELPS 1-4
Ah, the Germans. Arrogant, brutally efficient, square-jawed, humourless, except when some particularly vicious act of sadism causes a smile of relish to play about their thin but prominent lips, playing to the regular rhythm of leather boot-heel across gravel as they annex some wretched Eastern European nation – there can be few men of cultivation who do not harbour a rare soft spot for this proud people, foreign as they regrettably are. And yet, there is always the fatal flaw that distinguishes the Teuton from the pure bred Englishman. A debate currently rages about whether a foreigner ought to be allowed to manage another country and so it was in the 1930s in the Fatherland. Since they were minded to do so, however, would that they had opted for the stewardship of our own Mr Oswald Mosley, hero of Cable Street, as opposed to the excitable little Austrian unigonad with whom they ultimately threw in their lot. One sympathises, naturally, with the overall hygienic intentions of their 1930s/40s administration but laments that for all their efforts to pick up their feet as they strode through Europe, they remained, at heart, bungling sauerkraut gobblers. As one of our finest and most married of English playwrights might have put it, “To lose one World War might be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.”
We could have cheap viagra been terrific chums, England and Germany, had they accepted their subordinate role as comic, imperfect English speaking sidekicks to our handsome leading men. It was not to be, however. And so, the rivalry remains robust. Or has been. I have noted with some displeasure that the benighted younger generation is decreasingly inclined to join in with the merry banter at the expense of the Bosch which has long been a staple of our culture. The tabloid, or yellow press made a token effort today with headlines such as “COME ON ENGLISH BULLDOGS, STUFF THEIR HITLER SAUSAGES DOWN THEIR THROATS”, “ROO, LAMPS, LET’S FINISH THE JOB WE STARTED IN DRESDEN” and “THE ONLY GOOD GERMAN FORWARD IS A DEAD NAZI” but you sensed their hearts weren’t really in it. The entire mood of the nation was, I felt, insufficiently bellicose. One raged thus; this isn’t some kickabout in No Man’s Land in December 1915. This is the round of 16. This is war.
All the same, as the teams lined up buy viagra for the National Anthems, one sat relaxed in one’s armchair like Churchill at the Yalta Summit, fully confident of ultimate victory. The National Anthems, as ever, confirmed this. Our own was blared out with the confidence in Her Majesty that had her Mother had her way, we would have allowed Germany a “by” into the next round in exchange for safe passage by ocean liner to Canada. As for the Germans, they murmured their way through its dolorous passages, like small men weighed down by their own tubas, realising that the extent to which Deutschland would ever be “über alles” would be, almost half a century on, finally in control of the Eastern half of its own self. A poor haul, all told.
Despite this, the match was allowed to go ahead (an argument for video technology, surely, with the referee, linesman and fourth official allowed access to footage of The World At War, which quite clearly shows that we won the 1939-1945 campaign?). The game began at a cracking pelt, with England at once reminiscent of Corporal Jones run amok with his bayonet, and the hapless Germans scattered, clutching their trouser seats, shouting “Hilfe!” in high-pitched, cracked voices – all reminders of England’s dominance on the pitch over Germany circa 1972. So emphatic was our dominance was that it was of little matter when the Germans put the ball in the net a couple of times in the opening, 20 odd minutes. This had, after all, reactivated a debate that raged among thinking men prior to the match. Should we adopt towards Germany the strategy of Versailles and crush them utterly and humiliatingly, or perhaps let them have a goal or two, a sort of a Marshall Plan, so as to pacify them and reduce them to their current status of red-trousered, white socked, yellow tank topped, poodle haired imbeciles with a pidgin grasp of modern culture, capable only of inane utterances such as “Life Is Life”? (Well, of course it bally well is, what else did you think it was? Lettuce? Pyjamas?) The vuvuzelas droned from both sets of supporters, though the benighted Germans’ were distinguishable by the conspicuous umlauts on their b-flat blares.
Before long, England had more than restored parity, thanks not least to the ball bouncing off the head of the indispensable Matthew Upson into the German net. There then followed a goal from Frank Lampard. This, the referee, in his overseas obtuseness, failed to award but of course, this is both to be expected and of no consequence. The suggestions of foreign officials are, of course, noted, as a quaint, diplomatic matter of course, but count for nothing in the actual register of things. He felt it was no goal; I realised it was, to all intents and purposes, as was an earlier effort by Steven Gerrard which uprooted the corner flag but had so clearly and fervently been intended to land between the goalposts that in my judicial view it counted as a goal and was marked down as such.
Come the second half and generic viagra England continued to dictate the tempo of the game in the manner that the aforementioned Corporal Jones dictated the pace of the Platoon drill in the Dad’s Army documentary series. Always that half a second’s difference. We were imperious. Glenn Johnson and Ashley Cole were never caught so far out of position at the back that the German forward line could have constructed vast estates complete with turreted Bavarian castles, stables and grounds for boar hunting in the space they left behind. Gareth Barry proved himself to be a player of true continental standard, moving and drifting as he did at the speed of continents. James Milner wasn’t, yet again, a beefed up slab of useless. twatfangled cuntwaddery mouthbreathing much-needed air on the touchline. Steven Gerrard once again proved his worth as a goodwill ambassador and free gift distributor, spraying balls gratuitously into the crowd at every opportunity. And Wayne Rooney once again gave the lie to the idea that here is a man with whom you’d no more trust to do the right thing with the ball than you would him to do with your own grandmother.
So serene was viagra online England’s dominance that at no point did you find yourself howling at the pitch of your lungs the following; FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU PACELESS, ARROGANT, AGENT-COSSETTED, OVER-INDULGED, CULTURELESS, WAG-WHIPPED, FRECKLED, EARPLUGGED, SO-BORING-IN-INTERVIEWS-ON-FUCKING-FOOTBALL-FOCUS-THEY-HAVE-TO-FAST-CUT-TO-PHOTOS-OF -YOUR-HANDS-AND-FLIP-FROM-COLOUR-TO-BLACK-AND-WHITE, GOLDEN SHOWER OF A FUCKING NON-GENERATION, WILL YOU STOP PASSING THE BALL AROUND LIKE A) IT’S A FUCKING BLACK ROUND BOMB WITH A BURNING FUSE , THE LIKE OF WHICH YOU ONLY GET IN THE BEANO OR THE BATMAN FILM WITH ADAM FUCKING WEST, OR B) IT’S POSSIBLE TO CATCH SOME WEIRD STRAIN OF FOOT-AIDS FROM A FUCKING FOOTBALL!
As the final whistle blew, it was clear that England’s performance had earned them a place in the quarter finals. I refer, of course, to our performance at Waterloo in 1815, which is a supreme historical determinant. Having once again lost count of the score by which England prevailed, I asked Seppings the result. Although trembling for some reason, his answer was clear enough to me. “Germany? Faugh! England won.” And yet, I hear talk that according to some new-fangled, Brussels-based metric-style measurement, the Germans are claiming that, owing to the technicality of their players having put the ball in the net quite a few more times than our own, they are claiming passage to the next round, with factors such as pedigree, history of empire, erectness, spunk and beef disregarded altogether. This will not stand. I cast my hopeful eyes upon John Terry, who was this day as accommodating and wise to the Germans in defence as was Mr Neville Chamberlain in 1938. I charge him to deliver the following message to both the German Chancellor and to the British people, by the medium of wireless. That we have demanded that the umlauted German manager Herr Löw ask himself who does he think he is kidding if he thinks old England are done in this World Cup. That this evening the British Captain in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 pm that they were prepared at once to withdraw their team from the quarter finals, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is, once again, at war with Germany. And this time, we shall not bring on Shaun Wright Phillips as substitute. This time we are serious.