In the comment thread of the last post, mr mike ventured: "They will be celebrating in Scotland tonight;"
They were fairly restrained in Orkney - can't speak for the rest of Scotland, as I haven't been there in twenty months. At the commencement of battle, the flags of all the competing nations were flown along the harbour walls in Kirkwall and Stromness. The England flag, of course, was taken down and vandalised. An Orkney Islands Council spokesperson sorrowfully reminded the citizenry that the flag was private property and shouldn't have been vandalised. Not a word about the disrespect shown to a partner nation in the United Kingdom.
Anyway, here's how Orkney celebrated Italy's victory over England:
It isn't really funny though, mrs i, is it? It's like my note on the previous. They applaud lumpen and brutish behaviour on the field - all the while prefaced by the fatuous kneeling of 22 millionaires - and are then apparently confused when the so-called supporters behave lumpenly and brutishly afterwards.
Your lot revel in it with their sour, twisted faces - moaning about the very English who pay for their kids' free college education and their Buckie-laced NED afternoons. Scotland is paradise compared to Luton or Rotherham. Stop fucking whining, I'd say to Mrs Fish's lot, and the odd thank-you would not go amiss.
And now Tyrone wants Priti to kneel or he won't believe a word she sez. What a fucking shower.
Hoist the Norwegian flag, Mrs Ishmael, else Gnasher Sturgeon will have you all wearing her tartan face nappies of servitude for evermore.
The last one was Yardarm, Mrs Ishmael.
bring me the head of tyrone's ting
Not my lot, mr mongoose, nothing to do with me. mr ishmael and I embarked on our Grand Orkney Adventure (God bless my naivety!) after mr ishmael had ree-surched Orkney on 't'internet following a TV programme which was all wind-swept beaches, rolling waves, neolithic stone stuff. I came home from work and he was all excited-like - look at this, he marveled, you can buy a fucking mansion on your credit card, you can pull your dinner out of the sea, you don't need to see another tower block ever again. It was like "Tell me about the rabbits, George," in "Of Mice and Men". Never pausing to consider how that turned out for Lennie, mr. ishmael set his not inconsiderable intellect to the task of relocating us to Orkney.
On 1 September 2001 Germany met England during the qualifying stages of the 2002 World Cup, at the Olympiastadion in Munich. England won the game 5–1, helped by a hat-trick from Michael Owen. I was working with wayward youth at the time, a Stranger in a Strange Land, just getting to grips with the godforsaken accent (I didn't know Weegie from Orcadian - imagine that!) The phrase "Thorfinn threw a whitie" was impenetrable, until the boy told me they had to get Thorfinn to A&E, but they didn't dare tell what Thorf had taken - which kinda gave me a clue. They are all boys here, in the way that they are all lads in Birmingham. Anyway, this boy, neat little English accent, who had been dragged up to Orkney by parents determined to make better life, had been soundly and frequently beaten up in school because (a)he was pretty, (b)girls liked him and (c)he was English, had long since decided not to have the front tooth replaced that was knocked out by his class mates because that would stop him being pretty and would get him accepted. Anyway, this boy was wearing a Germany T shirt. Why's that, I asked, why are you not supporting England? Stupid me. Anyone but England.
Anyway, the ishmaeling and I were discussing the football. What, Mother, she exclaimed, astonished, you watched the match? Dreadfully embarrassed, I excused myself on the grounds of Blog Duties. Turns out she had watched it, too, despite holding the sound Marxist view that Football is the opium of the working classes, designed to distract them from quite proper riot, insurrection and civil unrest by letting them have Wednesday afternoons off to play games.
We agreed that they need to practice more.
Ah, mr yardarm, they are cute, aren't they, nestling under the bog-brush hair, the little tartan face masks that match the little tartan shoes? The only hope for us is in a prosecution for the missing money. Where is it? What did she spend it on? A nation-wide search needs mounting to find a handy scapegoat.
That Prickli Patel, editor mr verge, you've got to admit she has a face like a squeezed lemon. Not that we're lookist, here in ishamelia, particularly towards people who give birth, but, really, I don't believe a word she says either.
No indeed. not your lot, m'lady, but you know what I meant.
It turns out that the "racist" defacement of Mr Rashford's mural amounted to "fucker" and "shit bastard". None of which looks racist to me although what do I know? Is being cross or disappointed with a person of colour now automatically racist? I guarantee you that if there had been a mural somewhere of St Harry Kane, and he had failed to put in his penalty rebound last Wednesday, he would have got the same.
Why are we become so ruinously stupid?
Those are terms of endearment Down Here.
The famous story of when Jardine was sledged when batting when one of the Aussies called him a bastard. Jardine complained to the Aussie captain after play; the Aussie captain opened the dressing room door and shouted: "which of you bastards called this bastard a bastard?"
At a push, "shit" could probably be spun as a racist slur, mr mongoose. And probably will be, if they catch the critic.
The notion of having a gable-end mural in one's honour for veneration purposes is so madly Irish that it has caused me to remember something, so it has. And I think I may have mentioned before to mr i but when I lost the protection of my big brother (2nd year at primary school) the nasty, big boys from the CofE school would every day try to trip me up as I went past and they'd shout at me "Thick! Paddy! Cunt!"
Being so close to on the spectrum that it matters not, my six-year-old self internally reasoned that I knew that I wasn't thick, and certainly not as thick as some dumbo yelling rude things in the street and I wasn't a paddy because I was born in that house 50 yards over my shoulder. I probably filed away to ask the bigger brother what the short word meant.
I just got on with my life and tried, as my dear old mum used to advise me, to not "give them the satisfaction". This is no so old-fashioned that it is probably a crime in itself - pandering and enabling, perhaps. We'll have to have the old girl banged up for child abuse. Can I get some compo?
And, yes, mr mike, the things one hears on a cricket field would make these folk spontaneously combust.
Petites madeleines all round, mr mongoose; your TPC tale just time-tunneled me back to south London over 40 years ago, when my gormless 13 year old self was walking up Putney Hill and some ardnuts on the top of a passing bus shouted "Oi! Wanker!" How the hell do they know about that, I thought. Innocent days.
The killing fields of the school playground - they sear our souls and brand our memories.
Wouldn't it be great if we could remember wonderful things that were said to us when we were 6 or 13? Instead, we carry this crap around with us into sere old age.
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