NOT VERY good, I know, but at least it’s a start. Asuncion is the capital of Paraguay, isn’t it? I’m fairly sure it is, although it sometimes becomes confused in my addled mind with Quito. That’s Ecuador, no? England’s World Cup group is a real problem, not so much on the pitch as off it, up there in the stands. I’ve worked really hard at it over the past 48 hours but I still can’t conjure up much animus against any of the three countries against whom we have been drawn.
International matches are most fun when there is something spiteful and vindictive with which to taunt the opposition, an example of George Orwell’s contention that sport is merely war by other means.
But what the hell can we say about Sweden? Rib them over their unnecessarily high level of public expenditure as a proportion of GDP? Suggest that Ulrika Jonsson indulges in unnatural sexual practices, or that both Strindberg and Olof Palme were, if we’re honest, a bit boring? Not much to go on, is it? Paraguay is probably our best bet for snide and insulting chants; it’s just a shame we’re playing them in Frankfurt rather than Nuremberg, which would have provided historical piquancy — the country having been a bolt hole in 1945 for former SS officers on the run.
I spent ages trying to come up with a rhyme for General Alfredo Stroessner, their somewhat right-of-centre former president: but no luck. I suppose we could gloat over the fact that they’re landlocked and eat a lot of maize. Thin gruel though, if you’ll excuse the lame pun.
I know that it is evidence of both a puerile sense of humour and unpleasant nationalistic tendencies, but I like it when England fans sing at the French (or the Czechs, or the Poles etc): “If it wasn’t for the English you’d be Krauts.” Even better is the patronising and doubly insulting chant directed at the Belgians and the Luxembourgeois: “You’re French and you know you are . . . ”
I marvelled at the speed with which the traditional song to be sprayed with glee and venom in the direction of Germans — “Two world wars and one World Cup” — was transformed into: “One-nil down, five-one up — two world wars and one World Cup.”
The funniest chants directed at blameless foreigners occurred in a game which, mercifully, never actually took place. Somebody with what we might kindly describe as a sense of mischief thought that it would be a good idea for Millwall to play a pre-season friendly against Iran at the New Den.
Common sense — and, I suspect, representation from the Metropolitan police, British and Iranian governments and, possibly, the United Nations — prevailed and the game was eventually called off. But the songs had already been written and were doing the rounds on the various Millwall fans’ websites. “You’re Shi’ite and you know you are,” is, by any token, pretty good. The politically acute, dark and baleful “you’re next and you know you are,” is even better. But best of all was the one to be directed at Iran’s female supporters, a chant which combined in seven short words not just gratuitously offensive sexism, but an incitement to racial and religious hatred: “Get your face out for the lads.”
But Paraguay, Trinidad & Tobago and Sweden are going to take a lot of work, a lot of hard thinking. And you know, I’ve suddenly had the horrible thought that old Eichmann was picked up by the Israelis in Brazil, not Paraguay. Or maybe Bolivia. Back to the drawing board.
MANCHESTER UNITED’S “supporters” have been jamming the airwaves, howling in despair over their team’s failure to progress from the European Champions League last Wednesday.
Radio Five Live has become, of late, an aural problem page for desolate Mancs (although the Manc accents have, of course, been in short supply). It’s appalling, a flippin’ disgrace, etc.
Some of these “supporters” have suggested that they will boycott matches until “something is done”.
Mick Hume, an ex-Commie Manchester United supporter writing in The Times, called, with Leninist rigour, for the decapitation of Sir Alex Ferguson and the defenestration of half of the current team. Well, you big, soft, whining, spoilt jessies — all of you. Second in the Premiership and the only team to stand even the faintest chance of catching up with Chelski; still in the Carling Cup and the FA Cup (oh, come on Burton Albion, make my day . . . ).
Possessed of at least two players who would thrill any football ground in the world — Wayne Rooney and that twinkle-toed, primped-up little moppet Cristiano Ronaldo. Season after season of glittering achievement including Premiership, FA Cup and European Cup titles and a top-four finish every year.
And now, because of four or five substandard performances in Europe, you’ve had enough and the toys are being forcibly expelled from the pram.
I suppose that this epic petulance is the natural consequence of appending one’s support to a club solely in order to acquire vicarious success, rather than because you feel a familial or geographical affinity with them.
An affinity which is able to outlast the occasional unfortunate defeat (or even, in extreme cases, relegation to the Conference).
You wonder why you’re disproportionately disliked by the fans of other clubs? Well, whine to a few Geordies or Bristolians about how dispiriting was that defeat against Benfica in Portugal and the ignominy of such underachievement — and I suspect that you will be presented, perhaps physically, with a copious response.
Or why not try complaining to a fan of Torquay United about how, this year, you might at best finish second in the Premiership and qualify for Europe once again and really, it is all just too much to bear? Really? Tell you what — just eat your prawn sandwiches and shut up.
