Another Guest Writer. This time Sir Timothy Megone. King of The Bog End.
It's fair too say that Tim is one of the "Characters" over at Tooting and Mitcham. When I say "Characters", I mean nutcase.
I don’t go along with the Fifth Columnists and the Shabby Naysayers who attributed England’s World Cup progress to a horny cocktail of good fortune and sub-standard opposition. Or the general idea that we are light years away from the glittering citadels that bestride international football.
England have fucked it up in the past against supposed village level opposition and there was no prospect of that on this occasion (or at least there shouldn’t have been against Tunisia if the officials had turned up in the first half). Sweden and Colombia were genuinely dangerous opponents that we sent packing (albeit after a decidedly wobbly finish against the latter) and we weren’t far off toppling Croatia, who could easily have won the whole thing.
If you take away the Big Potatoes of the tournament – France, Belgium, Croatia and Brazil – you’re left with a chasing pack of spritely whippersnappers and plucky fuckers (Mexico, Switzerland) and stumbling giants (Germany and Argentina) without a lot to choose between them, and England somewhere near the front of the perky pretender brigade.
I remain firmly convinced that if Mikhail Antonio (injured and out of favour, but immortalized by his Tooting and Mitcham past and morally still black and white all the way) had been on board in Russia, things would have been different and the 52 year drout ended once and for all.
England could also do with a hefty improvement in the musical accompaniment department, starting by ditching the forelock tugging dirge that masquerades as a national anthem. That’s the song they play before Northern Ireland matches where our Lord and Saviour is requested to rescue an elderly German woman from who knows what – the perils of silly hats at Ascot? Perhaps we could have a song about England instead?
Steel Eye Span’s (or is it Spam, as in fritter) ‘All Around My Hat’ appears to fit the bill. Blown away by the orgasmic musical swirl, I never really listened to the lyrics, but educated guesswork and wishful thinking tell me that it deals with Morris dancing and pagan rituals in the Forest of Dean, garnished with assorted Village Idiot rites of passage (cheese rolling, shin-kicking and stinging nettle eating competitions, with Countryfile’s John Craven gazing lovingly from afar). Does it for me.
England have fucked it up in the past against supposed village level opposition and there was no prospect of that on this occasion (or at least there shouldn’t have been against Tunisia if the officials had turned up in the first half). Sweden and Colombia were genuinely dangerous opponents that we sent packing (albeit after a decidedly wobbly finish against the latter) and we weren’t far off toppling Croatia, who could easily have won the whole thing.
If you take away the Big Potatoes of the tournament – France, Belgium, Croatia and Brazil – you’re left with a chasing pack of spritely whippersnappers and plucky fuckers (Mexico, Switzerland) and stumbling giants (Germany and Argentina) without a lot to choose between them, and England somewhere near the front of the perky pretender brigade.
I remain firmly convinced that if Mikhail Antonio (injured and out of favour, but immortalized by his Tooting and Mitcham past and morally still black and white all the way) had been on board in Russia, things would have been different and the 52 year drout ended once and for all.
England could also do with a hefty improvement in the musical accompaniment department, starting by ditching the forelock tugging dirge that masquerades as a national anthem. That’s the song they play before Northern Ireland matches where our Lord and Saviour is requested to rescue an elderly German woman from who knows what – the perils of silly hats at Ascot? Perhaps we could have a song about England instead?
Steel Eye Span’s (or is it Spam, as in fritter) ‘All Around My Hat’ appears to fit the bill. Blown away by the orgasmic musical swirl, I never really listened to the lyrics, but educated guesswork and wishful thinking tell me that it deals with Morris dancing and pagan rituals in the Forest of Dean, garnished with assorted Village Idiot rites of passage (cheese rolling, shin-kicking and stinging nettle eating competitions, with Countryfile’s John Craven gazing lovingly from afar). Does it for me.
England’s lusty surge to the World Cup semi-final and the beer-soaked frenzy that went with it brought back memories of 1990, when people who normally couldn’t give a shit about football steamed in on the act, casting off their shackles and running amok through fields, forests, bus shelters and discos across the realm – while those of us who’d suffered the Three Lions’ constipated flounderings for years wondered what the fuck was going on.
My daughter is one of the new breed of steely eyed zealots, which is puzzling when you consider her footballing past with Tooting and Mitcham: - she strolled onto the scene over a decade ago to the riotous splendour of Richard Cadette’s fantastic but fragile and ultimately failed promotion chasing team. It featured the rampaging heroics of ‘Super Johnny’ Hastings (with his six-goal haul against Kentish tunnel fuckers Ashford Town), which put Harry Kane’s recent exploits in the shade.
All of which failed to impress her and she turned her back on the One True Cause after a couple of years’ failed indoctrination from the Bog End priesthood. But if the devil-may-care antics of Jordan Pickford and Harry Maguire are enough to entice her back to Tooting’s shrivelling fan base, then that will do me fine.
My daughter is one of the new breed of steely eyed zealots, which is puzzling when you consider her footballing past with Tooting and Mitcham: - she strolled onto the scene over a decade ago to the riotous splendour of Richard Cadette’s fantastic but fragile and ultimately failed promotion chasing team. It featured the rampaging heroics of ‘Super Johnny’ Hastings (with his six-goal haul against Kentish tunnel fuckers Ashford Town), which put Harry Kane’s recent exploits in the shade.
All of which failed to impress her and she turned her back on the One True Cause after a couple of years’ failed indoctrination from the Bog End priesthood. But if the devil-may-care antics of Jordan Pickford and Harry Maguire are enough to entice her back to Tooting’s shrivelling fan base, then that will do me fine.
I’m still struggling to cope with the passing of another World Cup. Despite missing more bits than I would have wanted (Serbia v Switzerland for starters), I probably enjoyed this one more than any that I can remember.
As a defender of righteousness and justice across the globe, my default position has always been to stand by the arbiters of law and order, so it will come as no surprise that I found the general standard of refereeing pretty handy, especially compared with the crap that we put up with in the 1990’s.
Perversely, amongst the low lights was the introduction of VAR, with frequently questionable reviews, followed by massive delays and sealed with often shitty decisions, Iran’s dodgy penalty against Portugal being a case in point, but one that ultimately didn’t change anything. The one that stole the show – because it affected the course of the game and quite possibly the outcome - was the ludicrous penalty awarded to France in the final against Croatia.
Rio Ferdinand defended the new system by bleating something about it making the game more entertaining. Possibly, but you could achieve roughly the same effect by bringing on a bunch of fire quaffing jugglers or inviting Sepp Blatter and the Pope to duel naked in a giant vat of custard for 90 minutes. Whether you’d get footballing justice is another matter.
I think the real problem may not be the technology itself but the longstanding obsession amongst officialdom with pointing to the spot every time the ball flies within farting distance of a fingernail anywhere in the vicinity of the penalty area.
I’m looking forward next season to seeing the non-league version of this, especially at the fourth tier where Tooting and Mitcham will be scrapping for glory with a variety of pig farms, several of them Middlesex, Surrey and Berks and Bucks outposts - set for deserved destruction if the Heathrow empire megalomaniacs have their way.
The technology won’t have been invented yet, so slow motion replays will presumably be enacted by amateur thespians from a local drama group pissing about with a beach ball in the club bar. A panel of experts, ideally myself, will mete out justice and retribution and the flame of truth and freedom will burn brightly and destroy all in its path.
Cheers Tim.....
I nicked all of this of his Facebook page with his permission I may add....
As a defender of righteousness and justice across the globe, my default position has always been to stand by the arbiters of law and order, so it will come as no surprise that I found the general standard of refereeing pretty handy, especially compared with the crap that we put up with in the 1990’s.
Perversely, amongst the low lights was the introduction of VAR, with frequently questionable reviews, followed by massive delays and sealed with often shitty decisions, Iran’s dodgy penalty against Portugal being a case in point, but one that ultimately didn’t change anything. The one that stole the show – because it affected the course of the game and quite possibly the outcome - was the ludicrous penalty awarded to France in the final against Croatia.
Rio Ferdinand defended the new system by bleating something about it making the game more entertaining. Possibly, but you could achieve roughly the same effect by bringing on a bunch of fire quaffing jugglers or inviting Sepp Blatter and the Pope to duel naked in a giant vat of custard for 90 minutes. Whether you’d get footballing justice is another matter.
I think the real problem may not be the technology itself but the longstanding obsession amongst officialdom with pointing to the spot every time the ball flies within farting distance of a fingernail anywhere in the vicinity of the penalty area.
I’m looking forward next season to seeing the non-league version of this, especially at the fourth tier where Tooting and Mitcham will be scrapping for glory with a variety of pig farms, several of them Middlesex, Surrey and Berks and Bucks outposts - set for deserved destruction if the Heathrow empire megalomaniacs have their way.
The technology won’t have been invented yet, so slow motion replays will presumably be enacted by amateur thespians from a local drama group pissing about with a beach ball in the club bar. A panel of experts, ideally myself, will mete out justice and retribution and the flame of truth and freedom will burn brightly and destroy all in its path.
Cheers Tim.....
I nicked all of this of his Facebook page with his permission I may add....
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