Being a series of reflections from the patriotic perspective on England’s recent performances and the preceding friendlies; by the “Wing Commander”. See previous reports by scrolling down links.


Wednesday, May 29th, 2013

England v Republic of Ireland (friendly, 2013)

EMINENT ENGLAND HURL ABYSMAL IRISH LIKE DWARVES INTO A BOG 1-1

There is a great deal of balderdash spoken about the Irish, a nation of stinted, skirling mud-dwellers, whose closest biological relation, studies have shown, is not other human beings, but turf. It is said that they are exceedingly stupid. To divert briefly into the humorous, one recalls the joke about the Englishman, Irishman and Scotchman who shared a railway carriage. As the locomotive drew away from the platform, they were joined by a clergyman who asked them if this was the train to Devon. The Englishman, who was a little hard of hearing, said “the way to Heaven? I should have thought, sir, that that is a question we should be putting to you!” The Scotchman said, “I’d share ma’ whisky with you but I’m too bloody mean,” and headbutted the man of the cloth. Finally, the Irishman writhed around on the carriage floor, drooling, incapable of sentience and basic motor skills.

Although aspects of the above are clearly absurd – what on earth would an Englishman be doing in a carriage with an Irishman and a Scotchman? – we laugh at such jokes because they contain a large element of truth. However, the whole truth about the Irish is that they are both exceedingly stupid and deviously cunning. That one completely contradicts the other is of no matter to these unscrupulous people who in any case, being Kerrymen and so forth, have no idea what a “contradiction” is.

Some facts about our opponents on the field of  play, upon which England, of course, had their work cut out, as the Irish, green of face as well as shirt, blend invisibly into the background, making it appear as if England are playing no kind of opposition at all.

OWING to their ingrained obtusenesss and indifference to literacy, Irish words as written bear no relationship to how they are pronounced. “Sinn Fein” is pronounced as “Seinfeld”, while “Taoiseach” is, in reality, pronounced as “Spotted dick”.

ASSOCIATION football is not the most popular sport in Eire. More preferred pastimes include hurling, heaving, headstick, shintlock, Gaelic rules field draining, hogtrotting, stonebreeding and pony rendering.

VISITING an Irish village, and stopping at an inn for a beverage, you will be surprised at how deserted the place is. “What?”, you might chortle to yourself. “Have the damned fools run out of potatoes yet again?” However, an Irishman will soon appear – he will be wearing a felt Guinness hat and running at great speed, chased by a wild horse down the main street and shouting “Oi’m not bitter!”

ALTHOUGH very active in the lower limbs, the Irish are reluctant to have their arms leave their sides at any time. This has not only made for some exceptionally poor goalkeeping performances in past World Cup tournaments but also has had a deleterious educational effect, with Irish pupils utterly unwilling to raise their hands to answer questions in class. “Now, children, who can give me the names of twelve 19th century British Prime Ministers. Anyone? Fergus? Seamus? No one?”

CORPORATION tax in Eire is absurdly high. Set up shop in the country with some enterprising little concern – ARMS “R” US, perhaps, or OMNIMEGACORP (We Sell Everything – There Is No Alternative) and some impertinent little fellow in a green bowler hat is liable to send you an annual tax bill for anything up to five British shillings, or three sacks of potatoes, the local currency equivalent.

IF you stand on the rooftop of your house in Ireland, you can see across three counties. This is certainly true of myself and my own, Irish property, loath as I naturally am to visit it. For “three counties”, read “my back garden”.

There are redeeming features in the Irish, of course. Their church instils in their children the sort of fear of authority, benevolent or otherwise, which I have always striven to instil in my manservant Seppings. Moreover, while some criticised the Irish embassy in Bonn for sending a message of condolence to Germany following the death of Adolf Hitler, I, for one, considered it a sportsmanlike gesture to a worthy, fallen adversary which our own Mr Churchill would have done well to emulate.

Such were our benighted foes this evening, their child-frightening faces to a man fashioned by some pagan God more accustomed to making pewter jugs. The national anthems were at once the measure of the disparity between the nations far wider than any channel. Our own was yodelled with such lusty sincerity it is no wonder some of our players showed early signs of total exhaustion having rendered it. The Irish shambles, meanwhile, insufficiently booed, with its risible pretensions of nationhood commenced like some ramshackle brass band unaccustomed to playing instruments while standing on two legs, setting out to emulate the German national anthem but losing their way and wandering into the sea. There were a few chants of “No surrender to the IRA”, thankfully, for surrender to them we shall not. Nor Socialists like Michael Foot and Barbara Castle, or the Boers or the Prussians, for that matter.

The game began at a terrific pelt, the referee keeping a close eye on the Irish players lest they steal any of the Wembley turf, the English cocks thrusting forward in numbers. Every man jack in a white shirt gave 110% – 100% for club, 10% for country but this was no night to quibble about statistics. The Irish players looked on Wayne Rooney with envy. He physically embodied all that they were missing, particularly back in the 19th century during the Famine. Michael Carrick was barely noticeable and did nothing of any use whatsoever but that is often the sign of a great player, certainly an English one. Glenn Johnson was a brick in defence, and took to his duties like a brick to water. Rumours that Jermain Defoe was playing doubtless caused panic among the Irish defence. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain showed, time and again that there is no player more almost useful than he.

The Irish, meanwhile, capered randomly about the pitch like leprechauns in frantic search of an enchanted fiddle they had lost, in fear of a spanking from the Chief Gnome and being sent to bed without any peat potage. Amusingly, the ball bounced off the head of their forward, one Shane Long and into the net but this was quite clearly so contrary to his expectations it could not be counted as a goal. The insolent troglodyte, however, failed to apologise for his error to the England goalkeeper. Happily, Frank Lampard restored parity and sanity from close range, sending a clear message to Dublin that their brief time as a rogue nation was up; time to return to the commonwealth kennels, or face certain consequences of which more later.

Come the second half and England were bolstered by the presence of Leyton Buzzard at left back, who resembled little so much as a member of the English “mod” group the Leighton Baines – and  Phil Jones, showing every sign of becoming the greatest player earth has ever known. Sure enough, he rampaged up and down the pitch like a farmhand chasing a pig through a turnip field that has made off with his sandwich, oinking triumphantly. And so, with England pranging the Irish defence like fellows of one of the more prestigious Oxford clubs pinging coins at a little fellow in green braces dancing a jig and blowing on a tin whistle for pennies, the too-merciful referee called a halt to the Gaelic torment. This was the cue for Irish players and fans alike to assemble at the nearest clearing depot for immediate deportation, ferried back by a fleet of barges.

There remains just one further order of business. Since the Irish have dared, once again to pit themselves against the realm and yet loiter parasitically on the doorstep of the British Isles, the time has come for them to truly be cut loose. I propose special forces, trained in the latest “fracking’ techniques, sent out to drill away at the foundations of Southern Ireland, in order to detach it from the earth’s core and free-float to Europe, where it apparently feels so much more at home. I envisage them drifting up and around the Iberian peninsula as if on a giant raft, shouting forlornly, “Pegs! Tarmac! Old Eurovision Song Contest songs!” to no avail. Such was the folly of 1922…

Wednesday, April 10th, 2013

The Wing Commander – A Tribute To Mrs Thatcher

MARGARET HILDA THATCHER – A TRIBUTE

viagra onlineWith the wireless airwaves and television sets alike dominated by donkey jacketed, arsonist socialist hooligans braying unspeakable slogans such as “We Hate Her For No Reason!” and “Death To Wonderful Old Women!”, it is time, I feel, for what has been all too lacking from the channels of the British Broadcasting Corporation or any of its commercial competitors – a hymn of praise to the greatest of political leaders, who saved Britain from being reduced to a North Korean-style command economy in which morning worship of the Dear Leader Michael Foot was mandatory and marriage to tractors declared compulsory under new European machine-sex laws.

For make no mistake, Great Britain would have been a dark and dreadful place had this grocer’s daughter from Grantham, Lincolnshire not assumed the helm of state. The younger of you forget the Socialist Hell that was pre-Thatcher Britain – unions threatening to hold the nation to ransom unless their workers were allowed weekends off, our children force-fed milk, the Long Marches when British Railways locomotives failed to function, obliging commuters to trudge from Bromley North to Bromley South, and the Winters Of Discontent that large numbers of overtaxed like myself were forced to spend in The Bahamas to evade the fiscal demands of Mr Denis Healey to fund the public treasury. Thanks entirely to his incompetence, in due course, the treasury found itself short of money and we were forced to go cap in hand to the IMF. This was also, lest we forget, the permissive era of The Sexual Pistols.

Mrs Thatcher soon put a stop to all of this. As a grocer’s daughter, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s she had a vision – that every man, woman in the Kingdom be liberated from the shackles of state socialism and, just as she had done, become grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s. There was no alternative. No slacking, or excuses – and she practised entirely what she preached.

Mrs Thatcher promised to “heal” ailing Britain and this is precisely what she did with the brisk, no-nonsense efficiency of a Florence Nightingale in the Crimean war, by amputating without anaesthetic the useless, rotten limbs of the United Kingdom – Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland (which served as a “naughty step|” for her cabinet “wets”) and large parts of the North, though clipping carefully around some of the superior shires. As one whose energy were formidable – she would make do with as few as four to five hours a day without drinking – she naturally ensured that the Scotch who worked in the country’s whiskey distilleries were kept in work. As to the remainder of the population, she freed them from state dependence so that they, too, could become grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s.

Mrs Thatcher believed in the self-regulating market and, of course, part of the automatic regulation of any such functioning entity is that they yield a good deal of waste product – or, to put it in polite “civil servant” speak, the unemployed. In their vanity, the socialist working classes disliked the idea of regarding themselves as steaming piles of extraneous excrement, as Mrs Thatcher recognised them to be. Encounters between herself and the trade unions were, therefore, tense. I personally recall one such meeting, in which she was approached by a Mr Len Murray of the TUC. Here, the great leader showed her common, domestic touch. She briskly doused Mr Murray there and then in warm water and lashings of Vim, then worked him over from head to toe with a scrubbing brush until he was as spick and span as a grocer’s doorstep.

Of course, Mrs Thatcher had to put up with vicious, snide, backstabbing campaigns from her more lily-livered cabinet colleagues and rivals – as well as the persistent rumour that she was, in fact, a woman. This was the cruellest insult to the greatest of statesmen – having known Mrs Thatcher personally, I can vouch that it was altogether false. I met her socially, as well as her charming wife Denis, who evidently experienced a lifelong struggle with alopecia judging by her appearance. Certainly, Mrs Thatcher had a charm that was almost feminine and I am perhaps not alone in having experienced forbidden frissons of homosexualist attraction towards the Prime Minister. However, these I remedied by repeated, flagellating strokes of a knotted piece of rope, hard against the bare back. Having thrashed my manservant Seppings thus, I found that all of my inappropriate energies were dissipated.

Mrs Thatcher’s influence spread even to sport. In 1974 and 1978, it is to be remembered, England did not even qualify for the World Cup. That losing streak changed in 1982, however, when we took on and beat Argentina in the Falklands War. Naturally, there were a few casualties but when it comes to the bracing spectacle and recreation of international conflict, there are always going to be a few fallers at Becher’s Brook. “Just rejoice!”, she said, to the offence of the lesbian whale-huggers, many of whom lurked in her own cabinet. Certainly, it is a disgrace that those who have never been to war and experienced what it truly means should pass comment on it. As one who has, I can only say that until you have personally drowned a terrified young Argentine conscript, whether in a barrel in the mess just for fun or merely at your distant behest at sea, you can have no idea of the relish it engenders.

She had a dislike for bullies, such as the terrorist Nelson Mandela but was prepared to look past a man’s duskiness and alien culture if she could divine in him qualities that made him “one of us”. A Mr Suharto was one example, as was Chile’s Mr Pinochet. She recognised, of course, that these men had their faults – neither of them were grocer’s daughters, from Grantham, Lincolnshire who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s, for example. That apart, she found no blemish in them.

In 1990, she was betrayed – having stepped down, her son, Mark Thatcher was denied his birthright of leadership of the Conservative party, passed over in favour of a pair of glasses called Mr John Major. Her legacy, however, endures. She yearned to lift the working classes out of thraldom to socialism and the trade unions. Now, thanks to her, there are hardly any working classes at all. She fought against the “toffs” in her party who, unlike her, never had to do a hard day’s work. Now the toffs are doing a hard day’s work all right, running the country. She yearned for the ultimate victory of enterprise and the values of the grocer – now that victory has come to pass, towards which all of us pay tribute as we shop at the winners Tescos, exclusively, forever.  There are calls for a minute’s silence in her honour at football stadia this weekend. It is to be hoped that other clubs follow the example set by Manchester Utd at Old Trafford, where a full, 90-minute silence was observed by the home crowd on Monday. It is the least we can do for her, in exchange for her own, eternal silence –  incinerated and never, ever to be heard from again.

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 buy viagra 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 viagra for sale 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 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!