Please - all this fuss over nothing!
The England team is little more than a feeble ragtag of school dropouts, remedial maths pupils, bullies, narcissists and foot-stampers led by some slightly clever men who don’t know better, the majority of whose supporters possess a gene pool so polluted we could pour it into the southern United States and the flood water would actually start to smell better.
What do you expect when you pay people each week, who cannot summon up the effort to read a book other than biographies of their asinine tribe (and magazines don't count as books), enough money to support the average family (who, O sweet irony, support them both financially and off the field) comfortably for a year? You can hardly expect to get honourable, dedicated, imaginative and indomitable stoic winners, now can you?
I look forward to the doleful trickle of your frustrated, incoherent bellatrism, at least from those of you who have sufficiently evolved to acquire a rudimentary grasp of syntax and have yet to be intellectually paralysed by the recognition that your ‘passion for the beautiful game’ is little more than a desperate effort to fill the cold, cold void in your soul.
“Death, be not proud”? Not so, I say. If he took most of you whingers across the Styx he could happily contemplate a job well done. Before some of you bridle to think I am wishing your demises, I am not, I’m just making a joke that few of you will get because you’ve been too busy staring at the “drug of the nation (breeding ignorance and feeding radiation”), though some may recognise the reference.
