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Hoses of the Holy in the Parallel Universe

June 05, 2006

Footie footie footie

Is it just me or is the quadrennial trotting-out of 1966 and all that just getting a little bit too toe-curlingly embarrassing by now? How a home side with a home crowd and some easily-swayed match officials won a tournament by playing the aerial game and hacking the truly talented players on other teams to death forty years ago strikes me these days as being a little like the fat Marlon Brando in a kaftan being wheeled in front of a camera for the sake of a cameo and a few headlines in the movie magazines. And don't get me started on that fucking dog. How many dramas and documentaries has that incy wincy little story about a mongrel finding a trophy under a bush been stretched out to now? It's a bit like Zoe Wannamaker's stretched face in Doctor Who, innit? Dog. Bush. Trophy. How many more ways can you tell it?

Luton Airport is hell on Earth, but that appears not to have deterred the fatties from turning out to wave our overpaid and largely crocked team away.

I was in France for part of the last world cup, and it's safe to say that the country in 2002 was in a likewise state of frenzy. Then again, it had only been 4 years since les Bleus won it in front of their home crowd. The French were a little bit like we were in 1970, pretty well convinced they still had the best team in the world, only to see them exit, too early, after performing like a bunch of spoiled primadonnas who hated each other's guts. Why a succession of French coaches haven't detected that Trezuget hates Henry and will not pass the ball his way - ever - is beyond my ability to comprehend.

France 2006 is a different place. Far from celebrating their multi-ethnic heroes, they're fighting each other in the streets of Paris and Les Bleus are a lot less visible. It was eight years ago, after all, and nobody thinks that France will win this time. They've got over it.

Whereas we haven't. Or rather, the multi-channel 24-hour British media haven't, so they've warmed over the corpse of Bobby Moore and stuck him in front of a camera to mumble a few lines, like Brando leaning on the shoulder of Johnny Depp. Somebody let some imbecile loose with a copy of Photoshop for this week's Radio Times cover, and he's stuck the heads of current squad members on the famous 1966 victory tableau. It's complete rubbish, in just about every way I can think of.


  • Mo '75 to that.

    This stupid football hype has got the smell of that nasty "me too" mob mentality.

    When people talk about "we" won in 1966, in what way exactly were they involved? Most of them weren't even born then for a start. Did they play any remote part in it?

    Truth is, it's just cheap rehashing of imagery on the most tenuous of pretexts.

    I wasn't even interested the first time round. It's just a bunch of thugs booting an inflated bladder from one end of the global village to the other.

    The rest is just more commercial theft and tricking of the stupid rabble.

    Sorry. Rant disengaged.

    By Blogger SimonHolyHoses, at 7:44 am  

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