THE DUKE DOES DOWN UNDER
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

I have always LOVED the England football team and will always support them against the small minority of neo-fascists who have attached themselves thereto. And I dismiss out of hand the dried-out, whingeing “Englishmen” who can’t differentiate between the latter and the huge majority of England fans. Still less do I have any time for the plastic, malcontented home-grown loonies who support, say, Ireland or Wales because their parents or grandparents once wore a sprig of fucking shamrock or performed badly in a Baptist chapel chorale somewhere in Snowdonia.

I support England for roughly the same reason I support Everton Football Club. That is, they are an intrinsic part of my roots. I am a firm believer in the observation that anyone who denies their OWN genuine roots isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. It’s as basic as that. All the other arguments are self-serving, whining twaddle. I never indulge them and usually get some mild entertainment from walking all over them. You can’t argue with a brick, let alone a prick. And as we all know, a standing prick has no conscience.

So when The Duke was selected as the youngest-ever member of the England squad I was as proud as could be. At least insofar as football has any comparative relevance at all. The Duke is One Of Us, Everton are my club team, and England are my national team. Perfect symmetry. So if you belong to any of the aforementioned malcontents and loonies groups: Up Yours.

Moreover, we were playing Australia, a country with a self-inflicted cultural inferiority so large it could occupy the entire southern hemisphere. For those who have travelled internationally and visited the dump, or who have met and worked with Ozzies, no explanation is needed. For those who haven’t, all you need to know for present purposes is that Ozzies simply cannot be reasoned with when it comes to sports. This is particularly true when they win. Unfortunately for the rest of the planet their self-perceived inferiority is expressed through a single-minded application in tremendous sporting achievements. Under normal circumstances you praise a great athlete or sportsman in any field and you do it unsparingly. This is a disastrous mistake with the Ozzies.

Almost to a Bruce and Sheila I have met, they are strictly one dimensional if you allow it. You have to knock them to the ground, jump all over their head, mallet them through and through with a pointed stake, drape them in garlic and bury them beneath a crucifix at a crossroads at midnight during Halloween. It’s the only message they understand. When it comes to normal aesthetic sensitivities the Ozzies went missing in the gene pool.

Which is why their cricket captain Kim Hughes broke down in self-pitying tears the last time we won The Ashes. He knew what Oz culture had in store for him. You want to grip them by the shoulders, shake them vigorously and yell, “FUCKING GROW UP, WILL YOU!” My experience is that even if you could be arsed, you’d be wasting valuable time better spent with your kids. It’s far better to bang a ball and chain on all the Ozzies and have done with it. Anyone who produces those terrifying, awful TV soap operas deserves to be transported to…………well, Australia, actually.

As an example, before the Oz match their coach said, “If England substitute an entirely different eleven for the second half, and they win, they will have used twenty-two men to beat eleven.” Now for most of us that would be said heavily tongue in cheek, peripheral truths apart. But here was a Bruce by the surname of (naturally) Farina who looks and sounds as though he wouldn’t laugh if he saw a chair walk. Oz players and coaches are all the same. See what I mean? When it comes to the Ozzies, the only language they really understand is if you say, “Look, fuck off, Bruce,” and them butt him into the middle of next week. I exaggerate only slightly.

So, at the behest of Ron the pinky, I repaired to The Walkabout in Concert Square.

So what happens? Naturally, we go and lose 1-3 to a bunch of convict-related twats who wouldn’t last more than a month in the Tasmanian Network Solutions League, that’s what. Over in the dugout, Farina and co. watched with all the human warmth of an anaconda. The Ozzies were absolute shite, but we were worse. Naturally, there was no talking to the thick cunt Ozzies. What else do you expect from somebody who call themselves “Socceroos”? Funny, isn’t it, how these rugby based wankers are all too eager to try to steal the word “football” from the only game which you actually play with your feet instead of your bully boy thick forehead. Never trust anybody who uses the word “soccer.”

At half time we were 2-0 down to two largely stupid goals. The first was due to goal keeping so bad you wanted to run on and kick the daft guilty bastard in the nuts, the second due to a Rio mistake that told you he was worth nothing more than maybe 30 Euros.

In the second half we substituted virtually an entire team, including The Duke. He was of course the only one who looked like he was hungry. Meantime, a bunch of hulking Oz tossers were busy booting the ball everywhere, and it didn’t matter too much if someone was in the way. Shortly after, The Ears got one back and then they got a breakaway and scored the decisive goal. It was the only thing they did in the second half. Where the fucking Ozzies were concerned it was like watching a bunch of rugby players play REAL footy.

The Duke meantime had a couple of distance efforts which he didn’t quite get a handle on. His anguished expression said it all. You couldn’t help feel for him, surrounded as he was by a collection of sheep shagging no-marks.

All in all, it was a lousy match against lousy fucking opposition. If it had been anybody else I would have been more than willing to say, “Well done!” But it was the Ozzies. There’s absolutely no point trying to communicate sensibly with the dead-brained bastards. As I said, shit on them and tell them they’re lucky to have the opportunity.

So I say to the Ozzies: Go and fuck the nearest kangaroo, you bunch of dingo-shagging twats. And take our home-grown malcontents and loonies with you.

It’s the only thing they understand, you know. (13/02/03)

Wayne Rooney Becomes the Youngest Ever England International    Casting The Roons