Let’s have a good ol’ moan about something, eh? Brits and Irish love a good moan, don’t they? I saw your eyes light up when you read that first line, you moaning twat. Maybe it’s the dismal weather or just widespread alcohol abuse, but there’s something about a few beers and a thorough slagging of workmates, football players, bosses, politicians and celebrities that makes you feel whole, isn’t there? A fine example of this is David Beckman’s donning of the G&G after we knocked AC out of Europe. A lifelong United supporter recently considered the most famous athlete on the planet performs a great gesture and all you can do is complain ‘cos he covered his arse the next day and lives in Beverly Hills. Just used the G&G to get himself in the limelight, eh? You fucking cunt! Seriously, it’s the same with the megastore muppets and their merchandise. Why not let them wear G&G? It’s a visibility device whose ubiquity pushed the issue into mainstream media. They did us a favour. But you HAD to say something; you had to be the victim innit. If Beckman changed his name to ClungeBob QuarePants, permanently dyed himself gold and green from head to toe and got a massive tattoo across his forehead saying “Glazer is a cunt” in Hebrew you’d still find something in it all to pick apart and mark him down as a prize Gilbert. Would’ve had the tat done in English if he really cared, right? That’s why I love you so much, Tatlock. Deep down beneath your rubbish attempts to build interesting new architecture and “skyscrapers” (47 floors, haaheehaah stop, you’re tickling me!) you’re still sat in the Rovers’ snug in flat cap with whippet at heel, playing dominoes with Alf. And Bert. You’re a pathetic northern slag and that’s how you prefer it.
So, it’s World Cup time and you’re happy as Larry ‘cos it’s a social opportunity to be gaily tabloid and say nasty things about Lampard, Terry, Gerrard and all the other wankers who play for the wrong teams. It’s a glorious summer soccer smorgasbord and you’ll be down the local in yer six hundred quid hiking coat and Adidas Lite reissued trainers, laughing at the replica shirts and George Crosses and the fact they’re wearing plastic bowler hats and eatin’ pork pies an’ feelin’ dead proud of Rooneh an’ generally being douchebag puncture outfits right up to the moment England are eliminated by a goal from the usual suspects. Then they’ll deflate, puking a viscous torrent of fishy effluence in the face of anyone who’ll listen and fold their flags up an’ iron their shirts one last time an’ put ‘em away till the European Championships in 2012. You’ll tell yerself that you did yer bit, by watchin’ all the games live, an’ even makin’ the effort and goin’ ter town for some of ‘em, an’ bein’ pleasantly surprised by the attitude of the crowd in Tiger Lily’s or Planet Ballsackwood, or whatever other Printworks-cum-Hardy cosmo-pseud-politan gaff you watched it in. You tit; you could have been “assembling products at home” or selling acai berries online to cultural laggards in Didsbury. But no, you did yer bit, like them wot stormed the beaches on D-Day and put the kibosh on the Boche, or the Bosh, or even the Bosch. Inevitably we’ll botch it. I might actually pretend I want the USA to beat England, just in case they do. Yes, I’m that much of a slimy traitor. You try living here, Mummy’s Boy.
The one thing England can always bank on winning is the Albert Tatlock Fair Play Trophy, assuming FIFA haven’t scrapped it by now. The continentals and South Americans had it sussed donkeys ago but Britain, being an island full of working-class heroes, failed to cotton that pretending to be injured was a nifty way to win refereeing decisions. And by extension World Cups. Now we’ve become a load of mard-arsed diving bastards ourselves it’s too late; refs have the power to dish out yellow cards for synthesis and everyone’s at it so it cancels itself out. Can you imagine how thick we looked to the other real contenders, trying to win the World Cup FAIRLY? We’re talking here about countries dedicated to competition, to owning that trophy whatever it takes, because that’s what winners do. Reminds me of a game of Krazy Golf I played against two Italians a decade ago; kept catching them cheating but never thought to do it meself. Who d’you think won? Many folk stories tell how the winners cheated. It’s right there, in black and fucking white. Somehow the British never noticed that truth, and as such we wallowed in a sense of righteousness that I GUARANTEE has constrained British football forever. Does anyone remember that fateful night Mark Hughes dived and the United fans were disgusted? He was in the wall at a free-kick and was lightly brushed by an opponent. Went to ground all ladylike. Cue chorus of confused goatlike bleats from Tatlock Paddock. Guess what; it was another Manchester “first”, but we never saw it for what it was. I’m positive it was in a Euro match against “cheating” foreigners. I suppose we’re the good guys, we’re United, so no way could one of ours dive like that. It’s ironic, given our hatred of the national team, but what could be more English than Manchester United and Coronation Street? Even Old Trafford symbolises the side of fair against ugly; an honest Starship Enterprise fighting vile Klingon contraptions like Stamford Bridge. The red rose, the red brick terraced homes, the rosy cheeks of the lads and lasses, smiles upon their faces, walking bathed in floodlight over puddly cobbles, sodden hot-dog wrappers and healthy-looking dog turds. You know the kind; neatly curled, mid-brown, a good three-quarter inch in diameter. The type of dirt alsations and the larger mongrels of the 1970s would deposit. The antithesis of Meatbag’s White Dog Shit Hell, if you will. But enough of that. It’s too galling to dwell on. The not diving I mean, not the dog turds; I can always make time to discuss faeces, dog or other.
But dogs are boring, we all know that; loyal, trusting and stupid enough to shit on their own doorstep in many cases. A bit like our national side. Cats is where it’s at; lithe, agile, beautiful and strong. Pound for pound, they’ve got dogs beat hands down. I think in the future, when there’s five tigers and eighteen lions left in the world, we’ll have pedestrian safari parks full of genetically engineered big cats. All wearing giant versions of those electro-shock collars they use to keep dogs inside boundaries. They’ll be commercially conditioned by the collars. Zapped into staying off the footpaths where tourists can walk and marvel up close at these fabulous predators. But that’s a long way off, Tatlock, and I’m sure you’d say it was shit anyway. You might well be correct; you can never trust a wild animal, even a ponced-up genetic synthetic. You can’t trust John Terry either, him and his pretend lion’s heart. At some point something will set off alarm bells and that’s where cats and dogs go off, royal. Plastic chairs get thrown and plastic lions run riot. South Africa is not a place to fuck about though. There are real lions there, and they live in horrible shanties just one wrong turn away from the action. It’ll take more than two hundred boneheaded chair-throwers to sort them out. So think on, Dogface.
Cheating is where it’s at, cats, so fuck what the papers say. This motherfuckin’ World Cup is serious shit. Oh yiss, you gotta hustle like an African fuzz muscle, ya gotta handle the scandal, yo betta learn to dangle befo’ the mangle while the ol’ triangle goes jingle-jangle wi’ the tabloids like haemorrhoids on yo ass, Homeclunge. It’s not just about diving, either. Hand-balls are always big news. Take Thierry Henry, or even better Maradona’s Hand of God in 1986. Who won that tournament, remind me again? We fielded a team of good doggies against the jaguar-like Argies, and got seen right off; Quasimodo Beardsley the Hunchback of Knotty Ash; Gary “Salt ‘n’ Lineker”, nicknamed “the Crisp Man” by Mark E. Smith for his involvement with Walker’s potato products, and the ironically catlike Peter Shilton, the man with the curliest hair north of the 33rd parallel. None of these freaks could stop the Claw of God. There was infamy but the World Cup went to Buenos Aires. D’you think Maradona was losing sleep on the long road home that year? No, ‘cos he didn’t have a gallery of slobbering Nigels and Tristans waiting to throw gourmet bon-bons at him for fun when he got there.
Which leads me back to Beckham – The Beverly Hills Red. In 1990 BHR was an all-the-rage scent manufactured by Giorgio, or more accurately Giorgio’s swarthy little neighbour, and imported in containers by naughty men from Salford, Manchester and Glasgow. Snide perfume was as common as snide digs, and the Tatlocks were lapping it up. Cheap anniversary and birthday prezzies wannit? 1990 was a good year, but the later Beverly Hills Red, the golden boy with the bootmarks on his face, didn’t HAVE to put that scarf round his neck. Too many Alberts with foot in mouth disease had too much to say there. Never satisfied. Like the ape named Kong, murdered by the United States Air Force, the weak will always band together to bring down the strong. But not in the World Cup. It’s one on one, team on team, and may the best team win. It’s gonna be a great World Cup. We’ll see William “Parietal Lobes” Gallas, Fernando “Worm Profile” Torres, Cristiano “Brontosaurus” Ronaldo, Rio “Nessie” Ferdinand, Didier “Hair” Drogba, Landon “Nut Head” Donovan, Wayne “Moonheart” Rooney, Lionel “Otterface” Messi, “city? HAHA!” Kaka, and many more. I’m lucky my boss has generously offered to have televisions screening the tournament live on site, for all us foreigners. Once I’ve convinced him of the cultural importance of drugs and alcohol we’ll be bending the rules like Beckham…seeya there, Tatlock.
