World Cup Review

Sushi Blues

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GUWON!
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

One of the reasons the English language dominates the world is its adapability. It can with ease absorb and re-use words from almost any language. Which is why, for instance, it overtook French as the preferred world lingo. While the Froggies were fruitlessly busy trying to exclude other languages via the Academie Française, the English basically didn't give a hoozah so long as you didn't stop them ripping off your local natural resources while turning you and your relatives into slaves. The Americans have continued this completely dishonourable tradition and renamed it "globalization." The English once called it "Free Trade." If you get off your lazy fat arse and read up the old Free Trade "arguments" you'll probably be surprised just how many have been copied by the globalizers. These are of course bogus arguments and essentially a load of bollocks but one of the end results, like it or not, has been the present state of linguistic affairs. English still rules until the Chinese finally decide otherwise. It will even survive incessant American attempts to butcher it through a throwaway culture.

Many foreign words long ago worked their way into our language to the point where your average contemporary peon thinks they originated in Surbiton or Sunderland. In fact our language is so flexible you sometimes arrive at the erroneous conclusion that some words originated with Johnny Foreigner when in fact they are as English as a contemporary ugly shaved head, nose ring and empty-headed aggression.

Such a word is "Guwon!" (alternative spelling "Guwan!" depending on which Uni you attended). Said or shouted with sufficient vehemence it sounds like an Oriental battle-cry not unlike "Banzai!" Appropriately, the word was much in evidence during the England V Sweden game. But more of this later.

I was prevailed upon by some pinky friends to watch the match at that odd venue, The Walkabout in Concert Square. I arrived at a quarter to ten as staff from the various bars which ring the square were hosing away remnants of the previous night's madness. It is completely beyond me why the English have this inescapable urge to throw paper and everything else on the ground and then wade through it. Incredibly, a queue wound its way around the square waiting for the place to open. Even more incredible were the queue constituents…………………multi-accented, male and female, England footy shirts everywhere, flags with the cross of St. George, hats too - one guy, no shit, even wore a dress. I closed my eyes and consoled myself that at least they weren't out molesting somebody's Sunday morning.

By the time I got to the plum spot - centre balcony, first floor, opposite the big screen - a pint of lager was waiting for me. I closed my eyes again, thought of England, and quaffed quickly to avoid an early morning retch. Already the place was awash in alcohol, bright eyed footy patriotism, horrible shaved heads, no-necks and very loud opinions that the Swedes were going to get what was coming to them in spades. Me, I had an uneasy feeling about the game and said so. You couldn't expect us to lose important players and have one of our two world class players only partly fit and think it wouldn't affect the pattern of play. But when has common sense ever played a part in human emotions? And plainly it was a hugely emotive moment. How else to explain several hundred people shouting at a stream of projected electrons?

The teams were in the tunnel and almost everyone was shouting, "Guwon!" at the big screen and every TV set in the place. Now, you and I, WE know it means "Go on!" in encouragement of The Lads. But just stop and think for a moment. What do you suppose the celebrity-mad Nips made of all this? For a glorious fleeting second I imagined them scanning their team sheets and asking each other in momentary disorganised panic, "Guwon? Stliker? Goalkleeper?"

The match kicked off to a crescendo of cheering in the bar. Christ, they couldn't have had time to down more than two pints. Maybe they were still pissed from Saturday night. The Lads opened well and swept forward without looking too convincing but at least we had the solid Swedes back-pedalling. Singing swept around the bar and filled the rafters…………………"Nananaaa! Nananaaa! Vindalooooooo!! Vindaloooooooo!!! And we all looooove Vindalooooooo!!!!"………………Thus confirming my opening paragraph and further confounding the Japs if they could hear us. Suddenly I heard myself joining in. I was as mad as everyone else.

Mostly, club loyalties were forgotten. The odd sour exception was forgotten or washed away by the noise. Flags waved, voices raised, "Guwons!" abounded. Anything, you felt, is worth it which brings people together like this. It was going relatively well considering we had eight or more 23 years of age or younger on the pitch.

Out there in Nippon The Lads were playing it around reasonably smoothly even though the team formation was oddly disjointed. Why Heskey was wide left was as much beyond my proletarian reasoning as the selection of Mills in any position at all. But Sven hasn't let us down since his arrival and he must know something I don't. Which is as it should be. He can be forgiven almost anything after that 5-1 win over the Jerries in front of the SS Old Boys Association.

Then we got one after twenty five minutes and about thirty seconds after I said to our circle, "That Campbell……..he's alright, sort of……but I wouldn't have him playing for England." You could guarantee what was to follow. Corner, left side. Becks took it right-footed like the world-class craftsman he is, a study in close concentration, and as it whizzed elliptically into the centre box Campbell managed a short run and leap and bulleted it in with his head, aided by some iffy 'keeping. The place exploded, lager sloshing everywhere. I had an out-of-body experience and watched myself interestedly as I danced on a bench seat with three others, none of whom I remotely knew.

Enthusiasm carried us forward as much as team play. A goal does wonders for team spirit. The Swedes weren't really fazed even though their heads went down. They kept pegging away. In midfield I particularly watched Toby and Nic. Given the latter's wretched season I was hoping Scholes, Hargreaves and co. would pressure him and find the kind of weakness every league team had. It didn't work out that way and I gradually got pissed off with it. Equally noticeably, Toby's tackling was as hard and unrelenting as he showed for us in spasms. Nic kept annoying me by racing back and getting in the way of crosses.

Still, we had a lot of plusses, the main one being Darius Vassell. He looked well worth his place and made some awkward twisting runs through left centre. Which was just as well because nobody got a decent pass through all match for Owen to run on to. The result was an anonymous ex-Wonderboy. Our only hard shot came from Ashley Cole, left side just outside the box, and their keeper saved it solidly enough. Cole looks a terrific young player, but with a slightly narky temperament. Not necessarily dirty, just narky at inconvenient moments and likely to make mistakes because of it. Let's hope he gets it out of his system sooner rather than later.

Ominously, our midfield wasn't being creative enough. Dominance was achieved by weight of numbers, particularly down the flanks where Cole and Mills got forward whenever they could.

We got to half time in just-acceptable shape and I went the bar to replenish the liquid stock. After which, I betook myself to the dunnies. As I neared the door a Phony Celt in a green shirt came out shouting drunken anti-English slogans in a strong scouse accent. He took one stride and was immediately propelled backwards through the door at twice the speed via one of the most perfectly delivered spontaneous right crosses to the nose I have ever seen. The deliverer was a shaved head no-neck wearing an England shirt and sporting an even stronger scouse accent plus the kind of attitude to fell a charging bull. Slomo would have been a visual advantage since the nasal receipt was not unlike a blob of flattened putty. Everybody including the deliverer stepped nonchalantly over the spreadeagled green shirt with interesting widening red patches at neck level, and went for a pee.

"Jaysus!" I thought, "This boy's HURT." I bent over the prone casualty and asked the lump of putty if it was okay. A grin spread under the splodge and assured me he'd live and he probably had it coming anyway. No-neck turned and glared while emptying his used lager into the urinal in an unrestrained spout. "Fuckn RIGHT yer did, la. Say it again an' I'll cut yer fuckn ears off." Friends, I believed him. So, apparently, did the Phony Celt, for he promptly did one, presumably to the Royal A & E. Weaving little red dots marked his rout.

I returned to our party. "What was that all about?" asked Ron the pinky. "A nationalist altercation," I said wearily. Ron was contemptuous, "Fucking idiots," and turned to the big screen and shouted, "Guwon England!" And everybody cheered. Go figure.

So the match restarted and was immediately a different game. Patently, the Swedes were pissed off and we were tired after the first half chasing around achieving not very much. Shortly after the restart Mills must have had an uncomfortable jock strap because nothing else explains the fuck-up he made just right of the penalty spot in front of the goal area. The ball went loose and he hacked it away, straight to Nic outside the D, our left. I waited for someone to do what everyone else did all season, take it off him and start an attack. Er, no. He got forward two strides unchallenged and hit it left footed into a centre right area of the goal where Big Dave would have saved it nine times out of ten. But of course he didn't and it flew in. Vile curses erupted everywhere. No-neck appeared, eyes writhing, looking for the Phony Celt to blame.

About ten minutes later Toby had a much clearer chance from the right side of our D and hit it straight at Dave. The Manc commentator sniffed, "Almost an Everton double." Had it gone in I would have cheerfully strangled Toby and fed him to the reindeer in north Finland.

From then on, our play disintegrated along fault lines clearly visible in the first half. The more the game went on, the more our passing deteriorated to a maddening level uncomfortably reminiscent of our beloved Blue Bellies under Smiffy. There looked to be only one likely winner. Becks went off after an hour and looked completely goosed. We had nobody else capable of passing like him or turning the game. Only Owen might have done it but the Swedes made sure nothing got through to him. He couldn't do it on his own and nobody's going to let him run free at them now, not with previous wonderful examples staring them in the face. I have a feeling this is going to be a seminal moment for Owen. If he can now deliver performances to match previous great displays then he will deserve to get into an All Time Hall of Fame. Much rests on the shoulders of him and a seventy percent fit Beckham. Most of the rest don't have the necessary experience at this level. It will be different in four years time at the next one.

A victory over Argentina will be against all the odds. But you never know. Ask France, harhar. Serves them right for being so linguistically inflexible. "Guwon!" sounds MUCH better than "Allez!" Unless you're a Phony Celt of course. (04/05/02)