Saturday, June 12, 2010

It's Puffed Up Pig Bladder Time


Time to shave my head and tattoo GO RONEY GO across my cranium — for I am English, and the World Cup is upon me like a do-or-die wrestler pepped up on steroids and squeezed into a hi-tech lycra mankini.

From now until July 11th, there will be no escape from its drooling advances, no hope of wriggling free from its half time nelsons, no chance of finding some secluded corner of the cosmos from which cries of “get it in the back of the net, you useless woman” do not resound.

It’s a time for the heartiest of lads to suck the beer taps of England so dry, the earth’s core turns to ash; to inflate their stomachs bigger than newly born whale calves with pumps normally reserved for blowing up childrens’ bouncy castles; to rampage, half naked, daubed in paint, through a swirling sea of St George flags and stand-up cardboard Your Royal Highnesses, bawling gaily of Vindaloo, Hurst, and that thing Bobby Charlton did with his hair that you can do with your pubes if your ‘aaaaaard enough.

It’s a time for otherwise downtrodden and ignored old ladies to poke their heads from behind their living room curtains and proclaim, “enough! Enough of your disgraceful misbehaviour, you hordes of shameless young men! Prepare to have your bottoms spanked hard with our arsenal of crooked mementoes!”

It’s a time for the lads to draw to a halt in the streets, buckling the tarmac like turf in the box at the mercy of Didier Drogba’s bizarrely poncy acting talents, every last one of them ready for combat, for action — for England; a time for standing proud, fighting back, showing pluck; a time for communal belching, for stuffing so many doner kebabs down their throats that the meat squirts from their ears like a reconstituted quadruped’s intestines.

It’s a time for false teeth to boomerang from window boxes, outside loos; for zimmer frame chariots of the elderly and raging to clank into the streets, pulled by three-legged dogs and deaf budgies; for cookery books from 1932 to be slapped and thumped and bludgeoned against skull and flab and buttock as if Fanny Craddock had returned from the dead, been forced to sit through a three course meal coiffured by Heston Blumethal, then lost the plot more completely than when she was alive.

It’s a time for the lads to take no ruddy nonsense from these vengeful grannies who know nothing of our manly, football-ly ways, and with ring pulls of lager tugged open, in the spirit of those defiant lads of yore, defending England’s soil with their longbows primed in lines, to drench all assailants, all enemies, with foaming sprays of broadly continental biere, the better to blind and confound the approaching harridans; drown their useless budgies, render inebriated and helpless their scabby, partial pets.

It’s a time for soggy biscuits to be produced from rusty tins and unleashed in tandem with pitiful offers of a nice bit of Granny’s special cheese; for husbands officially declared dead at the close of WWII to crawl from their dingy confines and hurl their malnourished bodies at all whose flagrant disregard for basic good manners they’ve been persuaded at rolling pin point to believe is the work of Satan....

12 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

Sadly, the picture you paint understates the true awfulness. Does it really go on till July 11th? Aaaaagggghhhh!

Old Kitty said...

Did you catch the opening celebrations? It was brilliant! They had a great big dung beetle rolling a great big football like it was dung across the field. It was really good!!

:-)

Now will someone explain to me why Spain are the favourites?

Take care
x

McKoala said...

oh my giddy aunt

Whirlochre said...

Soccer-Free Hog
I take it you won't even be following Honduras in a jokey, ironic kind of a way?

Old Kitty
Sadly, I missed it all. Too busy shaving.

McKoala
Is she free? Anyone but James in goal...

fairyhedgehog said...

Even irony won't see me through. I shall be hiding.

Bernita said...

There's always be an England...

Robin S. said...

If I had to sit in that stadium and listen to that 'musical' locust plague, I'd be dangerous to be around. Dangerous, and mad.

I can't bring myself to watch long, because I fucking can't stand to listen.

jjdebenedictis said...

Vindaloo... Vindaloo... And we all like vind...

Burnt monkey scrotums! That damned song is in my head! GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT!!!


Bucket.

Peter Dudley said...

As I read this, I realized I was hearing the voice of Eric Idle in my head, and I wondered when you would hit the part about Watney's Red Barrel.

I notice this was posted prior to The Game, which according to headlines here, the USA won 1-1.

I would love to read your summary of the nation's mood since Saturday night.

Whirlochre said...

Peter
I thought the game was ragged, and England definitely lacklustre.

That said, I deferred to some of the LADS who've been destroying my house, and in their opinion we didn't do too badly — and this has since been confirmed by both Italy and France being held to draws.

As for the US, I thought they showed great spirit. Donovon and that guy with the crazy beard were both constant threats throughout the match, but you'll need a squadful (plus subs) (like Spain) to win it.

Can't see either team failing to emerge from the group stage — unless Slovenia hit the cocaine or the Albanians beguile with their bizarre folk dancing...

McKoala said...

'Anybody except James in goal' - except that guy who modeled himself on him, apparently.

Funny tale: Soccer Boy was playing as England (no idea why) in one of his computer games - and was in the lead until the very end when his goalie inexplicably let in a soft goal. Once the wailing and gnashing of teeth had calmed down, I asked him, um, your goalie wasn't David James, was it? Of course it was. How real these games are, nowadays...

Whirlochre said...

Shame they never did anything with Chris Kirkland — I've touched his tracksuit in the post office...