Archive for 2012

Sunday, November 11th, 2012

UK GOLD – HIGHLIGHTS

MONDAY

7:00
Rising Damp

Black tenant Philip (Don Warrington) makes himself a cup of tea, followed around by Rigsby. “Tea, eh? Bet you don’t have that in the jungle, eh, hhhmm, hhuh, hmmph?” Philip tales the cup of tea upstairs, followed by Rigsby. “Stairs, eh? Bet you don’t have them in the jungle, eh, hmm, hmrmff, hrrm?” Philip opens the door to his room. “Doors, eh? Bet you don’t have them in the jungle, eh? Hrrf, phrm, hmmum, hum?” Philip places his cup of tea on the table. “Tables, eh? Bet you -” Whereupon Philip hacks Rigsby to pieces with a machete, of the sort they have in the jungle.

7:30
Porridge

Despite repeatedly telling him to “naff off”, Fletch (Ronnie Barker) is anally raped by a white supremacist (Don Estelle).

8:00
Dad’s Army

“Don’t panic!” cries Corporal Jones as the platoon spot what they believe to be a German spy bobbing in a small boat off the pier at Walmington-On-Sea. He turns out to be a Jewish refugee and, over mugs of tea, explains to Mainwaring and his men how his people are being herded into concentration camps by Hitler’s henchmen and systematically exterminated. “A typical shabby Nazi trick,” snorts Mainwaring, while a horrified Godfrey forgets to ask to be excused and urinates himself.

8:30
Man About The House

His testicles at bursting point following weeks of being rebuffed by his two nubile female flatmates, a desperate Robin creeps downstairs with a view to “having it off” with landlady Mildred Roper (Yootha Joyce). To his surprise, he finds her slumped by the washing machine in a pool of her own blood, having impaled herself on a broomstick in a doomed attempt to pleasure herself out of frustration at her chronically impotent husband George.

9:00
Yes Minister

Consternation in the Civil Service as a Mrs Margaret Thatcher (Diana Dors), is elected Prime Minister. Sir Humphrey stalls her as she lays out her objectives; “My dear lady, while it would be most courageous, it would also be most infelicitous, not to say injudicious given the present concatenation of circumstances even to contemplate -” Upon which she strikes him on the head with her handbag, telling him that these are the Thatcher years now and he’ll do as he’s fucking told. Meanwhile, “wet” Jim Hacker is appointed Northern Ireland Secretary in a reshuffle and blown to smithereens by an IRA car bomb.

TUESDAY

7:30
Please Sir!

Fenn Street School is temporarily closed when a local council inspector discovers that the form master of 5C (John Alderton) is, at 28, actually younger than several of his fifth form pupils – among them, Sharon Eversleigh (Carol Hawkins) who has a 13 year old son in the second form at the same school. Meanwhile, there’s a new arrival at Fenn Street – Earl is good-natured, cheeky and likes the latest pop music. Just one problem – he’s black!

8:00
The Good Life

With little experience of precautionary measures in handling livestock, Barbara falls victim to streptococcus type II, a pig-borne disease. Jerry offers to take her to the hospital for urgent vaccination but stubborn Tom insists on doing it the self-sufficiency way, administering a medicine made up in the shed consisting of essence of nettle and runner bean juice. The remedy fails, Barbara dies but “waste not, want not!” Tom recycles her by burying her body in a shallow grave of compost. “Toffee-nosed” Margot complains about the odour of the decaying corpse, ostentatiously spraying Eau De Cologne over the garden fence.

8:30
Sykes

The “will they/won’t they?” sexual tension between brother and sister Eric and Hattie (Hattie Jacques) that has persisted over several series is at last overwhelming, as both give in to their desires in a passionate session of heavy petting across the kitchen table. Not a good moment for their friend Constable ‘Corky’ Turnbull (Deryck Guyler) to walk in through the back door, drumming his fingertips on his lapels. “M- Mum’s the word?” says Eric. Will stuffy ‘Corky’ for once put aside his duties as an officer of the law and look the other way for the sake of his incestuous chums?

9:00
Terry And June

When they realise that they haven’t had sexual intercourse for over 30 years, Terry and June decide it’s time to spice up their love life. They decide to do a bit of role playing, re-enacting a tryst between Hitler and Eva Braun at the Wolf’s Lair in full costume. They get down to it but unfortunately, in his excitement, Terry puts his back out thrusting out his arm in a stiff  “Sieg Heil!” gesture. Paralysed from the top of his outstretched fingertips to his toes, unable to bend an inch, June must get him to the Casualty department at once, standing him up in the front seat of the hatchback, head and outstretched arm protruding from the sunroof. Worse, the route to the hospital takes them past the local bagel shop, a gypsy caravan site and the hairdressers run by “confirmed bachelor” Tristram – let’s hope they don’t get the wrong end of the stick! And watch out for that extremely low bridge, June . . . JUUNNE!! . . .

WEDNESDAY

7:00
Love Thy Neighbour

Eddie gets into a row when he catches Bill (Rudolph Walker) picking apples from the branches of his tree hanging over the fence into the garden of his black neighbour. “Flamin’ nora, Sambo, it’s bad enough you’ve come down from’t trees wi’out stealing my fruit from them,” he shouts. “Look, honky, I’m perfectly within my legal rights,” retorts Bill. Eddie, however, calls in the local constable (Deryck Guyler). “Now then, what’s all this?” says the bobby. Whereupon Bill is taken in for questioning at the station, and falls down the stairs to the police cells, dying of his injuries.

7:30
On The Buses

Stan’s in the soup after a to-do while driving the Number 49. Distracted by a busty dolly-bird at a zebra crossing he loses control of the bus, sending it swerving off the road and into a canal, resulting in the fatal injuries of several passengers. Olive loses her glasses, with hilarious consequences – hubby Arthur calls her a “fat, ugly, stupid, blind cow.” Meanwhile, Jacko is put on the Sex Offenders Register following an incident with a schoolgirl on the top deck. And things get hairy down at the depot when a rumour is reported by the Daily Express that Adolf Hitler is still alive. Local “nutcase” Nobby ‘Gertcha’ Snodgrass (Arthur Mullard) spots Inspector ‘Blakey’ Blake and, mistaking him for the Führer, hacks him to death with a meat cleaver before he’s got time to scarper.

8:00
Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em

Bumbling Frank Spencer tries out a pair of rollerskates outside his house but loses control and finds himself bowling at high speed down a busy road. He slaloms round a milk float and, amazingly, sails right underneath an articulated lorry but his luck can’t last and he smashes into a double decker bus, his body sliced in two. A cat walks past the bloodied pieces of his corpse and shits in his beret.

8:30
Are You Being Served?

When Mr Humphries is caught masturbating to gay porn in the toilets of Grace Brothers, there is outrage and astonishment in the gentlemen’s clothing department as they realise he is a homosexual. Young Mr Grace sacks him on the spot, Captain Peacock frogmarches him out of the store and he later hangs himself in his garage, a ruined man. Mrs Slocombe quips that now she understands why he never took any interest in her pussy.

9:00
Steptoe And Son

With the country shrouded in economic gloom, the rag and bone men are forced to kill and eat the horse. Albert refuses his plate, however, out of fondness for “poor old Hercules” and eats from a pile of dung in the yard instead. “You dirty old man!” cries Harold.

9:30
Dad’s Army – The Finale

After nine years of defending Walmington-On-Sea against invasion from Hitler’s war machine, the Home Guard are shocked to discover that it’s actually 1949. “You silly old fools!” jeers Hodges, the greengrocer. “Didn’t anyone tell you? The war’s been over four years. It’s all nuclear now. Fat lot of use your bayonets’ll be against nuclear!” The platoon members melt away back to civilian life, dying within a few months now that there is no purpose to their life – except Corporal Jones, who continues to patrol the pier, bayonet fixed, just in case the Germans, who notoriously “don’t like it up ’em”, decide to have another go. He dies in 1955, suffering a heart attack after an altercation with a gang of teddy boys.

10:00
Hancock’s Half Minute

Special edition of the series in which East Cheam’s most famous resident sits at his kitchen table, lets out a long, slow sigh, says “Stone the crows – what’s the point, eh? You tell me, eh? Dearie, dearie me, what’s the point?” before blowing his brains out with a service revolver.

Wednesday, October 17th, 2012

England v Poland (2014 World Cup qualifier, 2012)

EMINENT ENGLAND CANNON PERFIDIOUS POLES INTO THE CESSPIT OF IGNOMINY 1-1

There was a time, a greyer, bleaker time, under the Socialist administration of the 1970s, when England played Poland practically every fortnight. No doubt the purpose of these fixtures was for notes from Labour’s Cabinet to the Kremlin to be secreted in the unwitting players’ shorts, sneakily picked out at set-pieces by Polish henchmen posing as centre backs, so as to bypass the Iron Curtain. It is no coincidence that in recent years, with Poland having acknowledged the triumph of Capitalism, albeit bringing up the rear in the international market with its cabbage stands and low-quality gelatine moustache enhancers, these fixtures have rather dropped off, now that Mr Brezhnev is no longer around to issue orders to Mr Wilson.

Times have changed; with the pernicious advent of the European Union and the flood of migrants to these sceptred shores that has ensued, this fixture might well alternatively been titled England versus England. It was pretty clear to us back in 1939 that, in line with other nations in the Sub-European region, Poland only allowed themselves to be invaded by Nazi Germany because they were too lazy to run their own country. “Let Fritz do it,” they said to themselves, vowel-lessly. That same indolence pervades the modern Polish immigrant to England. It is plain that having arrived in this country, their sole intention, having put in a 70 hour weekly plumbing shift, is to idle around in bed at the British National Insurance payer’s expense.

For those unfamiliar with these people, here are a few facts about them. 1. The word “Solidarity” does not actually refer to a political movement at all, but a bowel movement. the hardness of its stool, whose intestinal gestation period can last up to four days, can be ascribed to their national diet of rancified dumpling. 2. For those Poles who are not caught up in the illegal plumber trafficking trade, their only source of work is to be employed, literally, as poles, holding up washing lines, tents at English boy scout conventions and so forth. Predictably, none of them find this amusing in the least. There, in essence, you have the opponents ranged against us this late afternoon.

The National Anthems provided a further measure of the disparity between nation and Eastern mud-region. Our own was bellowed with spunk, gusto and the sincere, raging, tumescent hope that Queen Elizabeth II lives to be 140. The Polish anthem, by contrast, was an abysmal dirge, with the redolence of old socks, ratmeat and the melancholy of an elderly boatman putting out to water, accompanied by his faithful dog, to drown the animal to save on household expenses.

The game began at a brisk pelt; it was obscene to see the Poles capering about in red and white, colours which are, by rights, property of the English crown. It was quite disgraceful that the referee did not immediately blow his whistle, confiscate the Polish players’ shorts and hand them over to kitman Roy Hodgson before awarding England an indirect free kick.

The Polish were pacey; years of trying to outrun English immigration officers explains that. They also played the ball along the ground, it being their only match ball, and, were they to kick it out of the stadium they would have to pop next door to Slovakia and borrow theirs. (Fortunately, the scarved women of Poland knitted overnight a giant quilt to place over the ground). However, it was not long before mighty English cannon carried the day. How could they not, with a line-up so superlative that some of the players are even deemed good enough to turn out for their own clubs occasionally? There was Tom Cleverley, who has come a long way since his days as the Fourth Form School Swot at Greyfriars school in the Billy Bunter novels. Michael Carrick may, or may not have been on the pitch; his genius is to keeps his opponents, as well as spectators, in a permanent state of uncertainty in this respect. Wayne Rooney was, as ever, the personification of the splendid English music hall standard “Roll Out The Barrel”. Gerrard, as ever, was spraying phlegm all over the park. Ashley Cole is a national hero; it was very noble, very white of him to stand up for John Terry recently, though he knew that he could never again be accepted among his own sort. He was one of a number of players in the English team of a certain pigmentation. Following events in Serbia, however, we show ourselves to be the better men when we refrain from referring to Cole and those of his hue in racialist, derogatory or insulting terms. Let us simply accept them for what they are and refer to them as such; the Spoils of Empire.

The pitch was still somewhat moist  following yesterday’s deluge – indeed, one suspected it was not so much a pitch as a giant water lily. So unoccupied was Joe Hart that there was every danger he might sink into the aquatic depths where he stood. Being English, however, he would doubtless have gone down with his six yard box. Up the other end, England swiftly acquired the lead, as Rooney shouldered home a Gerrard cross. That effectively ended the game as a competitive spectacle. It fell only for Phil Jagielka to stage a masterclass in three yard passing which on only several occasions saw the ball trundle aimlessly over the touchline as he displayed all the gentle touch of a Savile.

Come the second half and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain entered the fray. Chamberlain and Poland is always a good combination as it generally marks the prelude to an exciting, absorbing, if one-sided war and so the final stages of the match proved, with England peppering the Polish goal for fun, Wayne Rooney even going so far as to loft the match ball into the crowd as a gesture of goodwill.

Another triumph, marred only by a singular injustice. Midway through the first half Polanski received a caution. That our own Captain and inspiration John Terry should have been banned for four games for loudly saying that which he did not say, while a man found guilty of sexual intercourse with a minor should receive only a yellow card is, in the truest sense, a slap in the testicles to every Englishman.

Wednesday, August 15th, 2012

England v Italy (friendly, 2012)

EXEMPLARY ENGLAND HANG IGNOMINIOUS ITALY BY THEIR ANKLES FROM LAMPPOST 2-1

For many decades, I have been faithfully composing these reports, labouring generic viagra over them for many hours as Seppings stands in attendance holding my inkpot, a substantial thing forged from 18 pounds of pewter. I have recorded many a triumph, including England’s 10-1 victory over the USA in 1950 (ignorte all misprints) and that fateful day in 1953 when we saw off the miserable Magyars 3-0, six of their goals having been retrospectively disallowed for communistic tendencies in their distribution of the ball and calculated subversion of our defensive policies, all of which came to light following the collapse of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I can safely say, however, that no game in England’s history was more keenly anticipated than this fixture against Italy, this titanic and vital clash of  toil versus tan, of sweat versus swarthiness, of elbow grease versus hair and rest-of-body grease.

As the so-called Olympiad has wended its tedious way to its conclusion, in which we have had to endure everything from our own Queen being hurled from a helicopter at the behest of a subversive National Health Service sympathiser to the national celebration of near-naked men diving into water together (a criminal offence until 1967), those of a proper stripe have itched for the resumption of the international footballing calendar. Worst of all, we have had to endure the usurping obscenity of “Team GB”, a footballing miscegenation against which I was pitted from the start. It is not that one is against the Union of England, Scotland, pliant Ireland and Wales in the Kingdom. We have fought men with blue painted faces and worse and more recently, men with beards to preserve this way of things. Let us be quite clear, however, as to its purpose. Wales and Scotland function as mountainous sandbags, a buffer in case of invasion from the Viking North or the formerly colonial West across the Atlantic. They are not our allies but essentially sub-human shields. Prince Charles has been personally appointed by Her Majesty to see that the Welsh know their place, the Duke of Edinburgh to see that the Scotchman knows his. In Olympic founder Pierre De Coubertin’s Ode To Sport he writes, “O Sport, you are Fecundity! You strive directly and nobly towards perfection of the race, destroying unhealthy seed and correcting the flaws which threaten its essential purity.” It seems that, this being the aim, involving the Welsh in any capacity amounts to an act of mongrel pollution.

This being so, it was inevitable that “Team GB”, unlike England, were fated to stumble at the knockout phase. Experience tells us without the likes of Terry, Lampard, Gerrard and Rooney it was always destined to be so.

Back, then, to sanity and an international fixture played just days before the start of the domestic season in neutral Switzerland, attended by two men and a St Bernard, with England wearing red shorts. How bitter and salty must Theo Walcott’s tears have been as he was forced to sit out what would have been the most important game of his life due to a bruised thigh and how redoubled his grief upon later discovering that the “bruise” had been carefully felt-tipped onto his leg by persons unknown.

The National Anthems told the essential story of the difference between the two teams. How our eleven men and true must have relished the opportunity to deliver their close-formation rendering of the tune, much practised in training, and ringingly audible in a near-empty stadium. As for the Italian anthem, which proceeded at the brisk pace of an occupying army beating a hasty retreat from Abyssinia under a hail of spears, it was  little more than a mute cry of surrender to the redshorts.

The game began at a cracking pelt, as some of England’s less familiar names set out their skills, a veritable Harvester Restaurant of footballing comestibles. Baines the coleslaw, Walker the boiled potatoes and Adam Johnson providing the Thousand Island dressing. There was Andy Carroll, too, the first horse to represent his country. Had he born Belgian, he would doubtless long ago have succumbed to the cleaver of some provincial restaurant’s chef. Key players were sadly absent tonight, including Terry, Gerrard and Lampard but England made a point, time and again of passing into the empty spaces they might have occupied in their honour.

Ultimately, this was a reminder not just of English supremacy but of football’s supremacy as a sport.  This was no handball, in which lithe, Swedish women dashed from one end of the court to another in a high-scoring display of manual acumen, or volleyball, with its improbable acrobatics and five-set intrigue. If the Olympics has taught us anything it is that football does not require such distractions, or excitement, or fun, or joy, for anything much to happen from one quarter of an hour to another. Football is football, much as England is England and so it will remain forever thus. Like the return of the senior manager to his desk after a lunch break, football and England are back; normal service has been resumed. Rejoice at that news.

Sunday, June 24th, 2012

England v Italy (Euro 2012)

INCREDIBLE ENGLAND SHATTER ITALY INTO A THOUSAND TINY PRINCIPALITIES

The mystery of what has happened to Italy over the last two thousand years is one that has baffled historians and evolutionary theorists alike. Centuries ago, Italy was home to the Roman Empire, which stretched from Gaul to territorial holdings in Africa and Asia. They might even have conquered Britain had Boudicca not driven these short skirted invaders back into the channel, having first confiscated all their Latin books for the future education and benefit of English schoolboys. How did this noble imperium degenerate into the oilslicked, girl-man, caterwauling shambles of a nation set before England today, a nation whose cars are in almost all instances smaller than their mothers, in which it is necessary to enrol in the Mafia in order to acquire the services of a plumber, a nation whose economy consists of a people extorting, bribing, waiting tables upon one another? At the rate at which the Italians are un-evolving, at a species, there is conjecture among experts that by the year 2500, they will be struggling to be classified as chickens.

To say that Italy has had an undistinguished past hundred or so years is a gross understatement. Had it not been for Mr Joe Dolce at the tail of the century, which is saying very little indeed, the entire period would have been a washout. Their military record; proud conquerors of Abyssinia. This is the equivalent of boosting your self esteem by going out into the street and randomly beating up an elderly African man. Having done this many times, I can assure both Italy and the reader that it is no substitute for the rigours and rewards of empire and conquest. But then, war is war. As Mussolini found to his cost, it is no use writhing around on the floor hoping to be awarded a free kick by the War Crimes Tribunal when you are being overrun by the allies.

(Speaking of which, I stage an affecting ceremony in the local village each year in which, for the education of local children, I re-enact the defeat of the axis power Italy in World War II. Seppings, head shaved and pillows stuffed up shirt, plays Mussolini, whom I proceed to hang upside down from a lamppost, with the children encouraged to go at him, Mexican style, with sticks. It is both enjoyable and instructive, reinforcing in the youth a sense of what it takes to defeat those who stand in the way of Allied forces.)

It is as well that Italy were subsumed into the Euro, for prior to its introduction, the lire was in danger of becoming the world’s first homeopathic currency. But gross fiscal incompetence is the least of this nation’s worries. Italy is, the map shows us, the most effeminately shaped country in the world. It is in the shape of a woman’s knee length high heeled boot, about to slip in the cowpat that is Sicily and fall over comically. Appallingly, one of its principal cities is called Florence. To put this in context, this is the equivalent of our own Birmingham being called Jemima, or the city of Nottingham being known as Melanie. This would not stand. Newcastle, Beryl. You see my point.

In short, then, a blubbering, imploring, dough-throwing, volubly jabbering, nipple tweaking, pointlessly gesticulating, manbag wielding, gelato-guzzling, match fixing, power ballad murdering, Berlusconi electing, homophobic yet homosexual being, crocodile skinning, women-minding-their-own-business annoying, against themselves betting, octopus boiling, opera ruining, prostitutes for referees arranging, artichoke drowning, banker assassinating, flare throwing, jumper around neck draping, law of the land flouting, mother suckling, moped worshipping, building code violating, dog maltreating, still volubly jabbering, calf slaughtering, corruption-to-the-level-of-haute-cuisine-elevating, freely urinating, Corsica fearing, too many children having, far too old growing, olive oil lacquering, checked scarf around mouth wrapping, red trousers tolerating, horse abusing, Germany helping, as-a-result-of-the-television-stations-broadcasting-nothing-but-crap-outdoors-all-the-time-staying, goat from tree hanging, around-London-in-loud-groups-of-sixty-wandering, zucchini munching, Zucchero-producing, tight shiny suit wearing, caffeinated tar slurping shower of effluent in sub-human shape, and rotten rascals to boot.

The national anthems were the measure of our two nations and our utter disparity. We, the English, who in recent years have enjoyed dominion across the entire globe, the Italians who enjoy dominion over the cake trolley. Our own was brayed with unflinching, patriotic, rabid fervour, the force of which doubtless prompted a watching Prince Phillip, as it rang in his ears, to slide into his slippers, don his gown, and tiptoe across the corridor to demand, for the first time in 40 years, his conjugal rights with Her Majesty. The Italians’ puffed up, tinpot brass emission, by contrast, sounded like the sort of thing the Freedonia Marching Band would strike up prior to an inspection by Mr Groucho Marx.

There had been talk prior to the game that the Italians would be too frightened to emerge from their dressing room, or would only do so that they be allowed to come onto the pitch holding the hands not of the team escorts but their mothers. Eventually, however, they strode out, typically giving no sign of the drama that had most probably taken place minutes earlier.

The game began at a cracking pelt – so much so that it was almost necessary for a man waving a red flag to walk in front of both sides’ rapid advance up the pitch. Italy could be said to have dictated the game but dictatorships are the Italian way – England were Prime Ministerial by contrast. Indeed, it would not be too high praise to describe them as Cameronesque at times. Scott Parker proved his absolute complete and total utter usefulness as he reluctantly collected the ball from a throw-in deep in the Italian half, did a three point turn and then lost possession. In this respect he exhibited true English values of modesty and generosity. Some officious blighter put up a statistic suggesting that England had completed far fewer passes than the Italians but this is to overlook two things; that as any visitor to the Via Veneto will confirm, Italian passes are always obscenely high in number, while Gerrard’s perfectly placed deliveries, the equivalent of trying to sink a six yard putt by flying off a ramp Evel Knievel style on a motorcycle, crashing onto the green and then hurling a number six iron in the general direction of the ball, would have broken the needle on UEFA’s pass-ometer and therefore not have registered.

As Italy persisted with the dangerous Negro experiment Balotelli (it is no coincidence that his name rhymes with Mary Shelley), England sported with their opponents, even sarcastically inviting them into their own penalty box. Granted, there were miscommunications out on the left wing – Ashley Young at times appeared to be getting himself mixed up with Ashley Cole but this is an understandable error to which I am generally prone, so no blame should be attached to him. It has been an excellent idea for young Young to be allowed along to spectate at these games, running up and down the channel and observing proceedings – it will set him in good stead for future tournaments such as 2024 when he might have matured into some sort of a feckful, remotely functional non-liability.

With England’s dominance assured (even a draw would have seen us go through on the countback system, having won one more world war than the Italians), we could afford to enjoy watching Rooney put on an exhibition – he certainly is an exhibit of some sort, his entire body a future bequest to the Pitt Rivers museum in the making. As the poor Italian fans in the likes of Bologna crowded round the town radio in anxiety, we English could put our feet up in utter relaxation at England’s ability to advance inches at a time, for seconds at a time without once losing possession, even allowing Andy Carroll (an excellent animal, owned by an American consortium) to enjoy the going at a canter. Mr Mark Lawrenson, listening to whom is by no means like having the pub bore at your elbow as you watch the match, provided excellent commentary. “Health and safety, no doubt,” he quipped at one point as a stretcher was brought onto the pitch. I laughed so hard I defecated, bloodily. Come the final whistle and England whimsically agreed, as they have in the past, to put on a penalty exhibition, strictly for fun, in which it is considered good form to allow the opposition to win, and go on to enjoy some chimpanzee’s tea party of celebration.

The game having gone to extra time, and myself in urgent requirement of an extended toilet break,  I shall allow Seppings to conclude the formalities of this report, which will essentially consist of summarising remarks regarding the semi-final and perhaps a precis of tonight’s Shipping Forecast. He will then submit it for publication.

FOR CUNT’S SAKE, ENGLAND, YOU TECHNICAL FUCKING TROGLODYTES, THERE ARE FUCKING LABORATORY FUCKING GORILLAS WITH ELECTRODES ATTACHED TO THEIR GONADS WHO’VE FUCKING COTTONED ON QUICKER THAN YOU GORMLESS, BUTTOCKWRINKLED FLESHLUMPS OF INCOMPREHENDING FUCKING AGONY WHY WE FUCK UP AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! DON’T FUCKING CHARGE AT THE FUCKING BALL LIKE IT’S A FUCKING SASSENACH AND YOU’RE FUCKING MEL GIBSON IN BRAVEHEART, JUST LEARN TO STEER THE CUNT THREE YARDS IN THE DIRECTION OF THE FUCKING WHITE SHIRTED FUCKING MOUTHBREATHING FUCKING MILLIONAIRE STANDING FUCKING ADJACENT TO YOU! KNOW WHY WE KEEP FUCKING LOSING ON PENALTIES? IT’S NOT BECAUSE IT’S FUCKING WRITTEN IN THE FUCKING STARS! NOTHING IS WRITTEN IN THE FUCKING STARS, YOU SMEGMA-WITTED, INEPTLY PROPITIATING, STONEAGE FUCKING FATALISTS! THE REASON YOU FUCK UP AT PENALTIES ISN’T THE UNIVERSE FUCKING WITH ENGLAND’S HEAD, IT’S CAUSALLY FUCKING CONNECTED TO THE FACT THAT, AS YOU DEMONSTRATE IN GAME AFTER GAME AFTER GAME, YEAR IN, YEAR OUT, YOU CAN’T FUCKING KICK A BALL STRAIGHT BECAUSE YOU’VE STILL GOT THE WORDS “GET RID!” ECHOING IN YOUR FUCKING EARS FROM WHEN YOU WERE SOME LITTLE WHELP RUNNING AROUND AN UNDER 7’S GAME IN FUCKING 1992 WITH YOUR MULLET-HEADED, PUCE-FACED, PANIC-STRICKEN DADS SCREAMING AT YOU IN SOME FUCKING ENGLISH, SEX-FAMISHED FRENZY! EVEN WHEN YOU TAKE A FUCKING PENALTY, THE WORDS “GET RID” ARE PUMPING ROUND YOUR FUCKING BLOOD-ADDLED HEADS! YOU FUCK UP BECAUSE YOU’RE ENGLISH! A NATION  OF PINCH-FACED, CLARKSON-IDOLISING, HOSEPIPE BAN-RESENTING, GNOME HOARDING, CUL-DE-SAC-INVENTING, GREGGS-ENRICHING, SHIT DECISION-MAKING, BLOTCHY PACK OF RUNTCUNTS WHO’D STILL BE RIDING AROUND IN SQUARE-WHEELED WAGONS SHITTING IN YOUR FRONTYARDS IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR THE FOREIGNERS YOU DESPISE SHOWING YOU THE VERY BASIC FUCKING ART OF PLUMBING! WHILE ENGLAND IS ENGLAND THIS WILL NEVER, EVER, FUCKING END, EVER!

Tuesday, June 19th, 2012

England v Ukraine (Euro 2012)

INIMITABLE ENGLAND FEED ROTTEN VEGETABLES OF UKRAINE TO THE PIGS 1-0

What is there to be said about the Ukraine, which sits like an unsightly, radioactive cowpat in the centre of Europe? The name, it seems, translates literally as “Our country”, which is of very little help to the postman (“Our street”? “Our house”?) and doubtless accounts for their traditional import deficit. Ironic, also, since for all but five of the hundreds of years since they slithered into being in the shadow of the Urals, it has not been “their” country at all, but the property of everyone from the Russians to the Mongols to the Germans – any passing power that fancied having a canter on the nation, essentially. They are peculiarly disposed to famine, suffering them on a once a decade basis at one point in the recent past (1922 and 1932), much of this due to their baffling refusal to take on board such English traditions as High Tea, which staves off the hunger pangs that can occur between luncheon and the evening dinner gong. But what can be said of a country which regards cabbage as a breakfast dish, rather than a comestible to be patiently awaited until the evening? Small wonder these mass outbreaks of periodic peckishness set in.

Ukraine is said to have enjoyed its Golden Age in the 11th century which represents a crass but typical error – peaking too early rather than getting going from about the 13th or 14th century onwards and steadily improving, as has been the English way. This was evident in the way this fixture panned out tonight, more of which in due course. For a long time, its history consisted of one leather-faced ethnic horde running at another across the Steppes brandishing scythes, for no other apparent reason than to make the centuries pass more quickly. And so, in a tide of blood and Borscht they did, till recent times which culminated in Chernobyl, which, I believe it is now commonly accepted, was caused by locals attempting to fire up the reactor on pig’s droppings.

There was controversy leading into the game, owing to some trifling attempt on behalf of the local
Grand Poobah to tame a troublesome shrew. No doubt this provided perfectly adequate excuse for Mr Cameron to give this benighted republic of war crime fugitives and green-glowing, two-headed crones arguing over who gets to wear the scarf a wide berth. Better a country supper in Oxfordshire than a breakfast of cabbage in an asbestos-infested hotel in which the Geiger counter functions dually as an alarm clock.

There had been debate also as to whether to rest key players for the quarter final – perhaps simply make do with Joe Hart. One could imagine him easily dealing with all that the Ukrainians lobbed at him, indeed even capping a fine, gum-chewing performance by bouncing a lofted clearance off the head of a Ukrainian in the 89th minute, then going up the other end, lofting the resulting corner high into the box than trotting into the six yard area as it descended to head home. If anyone believed he could do such a thing, Joe Hart does. This would enable the other ten players to have day off, take in the local sights and attractions such as the National Grain Barn, the Fungi Decontamination Farm  and the Kiev Otter Abbatoir.

The National Anthems were the measure of the disparity of our two nations – the English, who had the tactical sense to postion themselves discreetly behind France in order to avoid being occupied by the Soviets; the Ukrainians, who, in their bovine inertia and insensibility, did not. Our own was roared with customary exuberance, as if to stress to God that the Queen be saved – not parried over the bar, not fisted away, but saved, saved, dear Lord, with both hands. The Ukrainians, by contrast, intoned their own in a manner that reminded of the drowning throes of drunken Volga boatmen.

The game began at a cracking pelt, with the Ukrainians showing defensive naivety by leaving their own half almost entirely unoccupied for the first ten or 15 minutes. There were worries that John Terry might be embarrassed by the Ukrainian frontline but these were unfounded – it has become clear over this past year or so that John Terry is incapable of embarrassment. There were other performances that glowed harder than a fish in a Ukrainian canal – James Milner, for instance, was a much-needed credit to the Yorkshire race, occupying whatever space in which he found himself 100%. Had England chosen to play with any sort of midfield, as opposed to Scott Parker, one wonders how it might have been personified. The ultimate English player must have elements of Lampard (who made his usual contribution this evening), the similar “ard” quality of a Gerrard, and, of course, the non-stressed, syllabic “y” of a Terry or a Rooney. We have a name, then, for such a player, the epitome of England: Lardy.

There had been concerns about racialism in the Ukraine and so it proved – the racialism of the worst viagra for sale sort, that directed against the white English, we, who as Kipling put it, carry the Burden and are therefore the least deserving of pillory. Hence, every time English players like Rooney, Gerrard and Milner retained possession of the ball, boos rang out – though for some reason, they never lasted long. Hoardings around the ground called for “RESPECT”, and this, as English victims of racialism is all we ask – respect for our achievements in home plumbing, current-based cake recipes and for teaching a large, dusky portion of the world how to play cricket, asking nothing in return, save for  sole rights to their mineral deposits in perpetuity. Cameras at the game selectively picked out Ukrainians who looked almost human – smiling, comely women, excited small boys, family groups – but we know that the vast, unseen majority in the stands were a seething mass of vile, hirsute trolls and wolf mutants, forest dwellers and fire-fearers who feast on the blood of travelling English bible salesmen. England did well to keep their composure.

Come the second half, and England were swiftly into the lead, as Rooney made good advantage of his hairpiece to head home the winning goal. A lesser man would have settled for a draw, for male pattern baldness – not Mr Rooney. Theo Walcott entered the field, and England players indulged in the game of “Let’s Not Pass To Theo”, uncannily similar to that played by myself and a few other fellows at boarding school in the 1870s, at the expense of one Theo Charmleigh-Watts, when playing footer in the quad. There is always one such boy. Unfortunately, the character- building tendencies our game instilled in him were never realised, as he hanged himself by his own evening shirt in 1899. Ashley Young and Danny Wellbeck certainly contributed a great deal more than “Fuck” and “All” between them. Two years ago, a clear goal for Frank Lampard unspotted by the referee made for the unarguable case for goalline technology. Tonight, a similar incident involving John Terry convinced that such technology would represent a gross breach of ancient footballing traditions which have abided, unmolested since international football began in 1872.

Tonight’s victory should make Roy Hodgson feel proud – proud, as kitman and “down to earth” “bloke” to have the privilege of washing and handwringing the shorts and undershorts of men like John Terry and Ashley Cole. One has the strange feeling that, like Paul the Octopus, he is beginning to take on the properties of a lucky talisman, that in some way he is making some sort of difference. No doubt, in due course, the feeling will pass . . .