I'm Sorry Son

I'm sorry son for getting you involved with all this. I don't know why they all play well against Arsenal but all play like utter idiots when we have to support them. It's probably best we don't support them. Let's just hate them like we normally do for the rest of the year.

That big black cloud hovered over my son today. We've all seen it before. We all expected it but we weren't ready. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for his father's language. He wasn't ready for the wastepaper bin to be kicked, more accurately than Shrek has managed in 4 games, across the room. He wasn't ready for England to not put in even a decent 5 minutes in this world cup. We beat slovenia! Woooo!

Arsene knows. He knows not to touch English player as they are generally useless.

Club vs country? Club every time. Please remind me to ignore Euro 2012. Pointless.

Forget the goal that wasn't. Lampard is so poor for England he can't even score when he does. Had it gone to a Desmond (2-2) it may have been a better game but, make no mistake, we were outclassed. Hopefully Blatter will stop being such an idiot and let us use some technology to stop all this nonsense. As I write this Argentina score a clearly off side goal that they replay on the big screens in a second. Wake up Blatter!


This will be the last world cup blog. Back to all thing Arsenal but before I go I must thank the German team for posing for the messages for the England team. Below are what I think of my country's football team.



I'm sorry son, you have a life time of this.

No more limericks

So the family came through. The useless cousins who cost you time and money finally paid a bit back.

I got quite excited yesterday. I shocked myself. It was an interesting game to follow. I saw the first 3 minutes on the iPhone before the Internet was switched off. Then I saw an opportunity to bunk off. Last 30 minutes of the first half were on the radio while driving through unusually quiet north London streets.

England scored. I did a celebratory drum roll on the steering wheel setting off the car horn into a series of short bursts. The two women on the pavement jumped with shock. Then jumped again when I made that 1-0 gesture. This time it was with joy. We passed a pub rapidly spilling into the road. People bouncing. Sunshine. An afternoon pint. An England goal. Briefly the country was at one.

Home for the second half. I'm sorry England for my two previous blogs. I've done you down. This is important. I realise that now. This is my son's first real world cup. The first he's interested in. I remember staying up late as a child and jumping up and down in the arms of my dad as Lineker scored to get us out of the group in the 80's. We had that moment again yesterday. But those moments are far more real from now on. I feel it's part of his footballing education to feel the emotions of a Germany game. On Sunday afternoon we will either be jumping around the room or be hit by that dark 'what if' cloud. He has a lifetime of this to deal with. Sunday are his first steps.

So England, don't let him down. Don't make me guide him from under the dark cloud already. Not yet. No more limericks. No more boos. Make us proud.

By George, where's my car flag!

BOOOOOO!

This blog won't be very good. You might expect it to be good but I'm writing it with fear.

The weight of expectation is too much.

How can I possibly perform.





Our Manager is Fabio Capello
We cheered when to England he said, 'Hello'
But his team's very poor
Show him the door?
Shame, he seemed like the right fellow.

A big fat chap called Frank
From Chavscum, has lots in the bank
Oh for goodness sake
have another slice of cake
Cos for England you can't play for w***

A spud headed cheat called Rooney
To the fans did say, 'Please don't boo me'
We might as well play Shrek
Cos our dreams you did wreck
You've left a nation feeling gloomy.

Bring on SWP
He'll win the game you'll see
He'll dart left & right
Shame he's so sh*te
We should've brought Theo (or even me!)

There's a hopeless striker called Defoe
who, in our house, we call DeWoe
He runs about a bit
but he too is sh*t
We really should've brought Theo.

The left back is called Ca$hley Cole
He really is a f.......

Oh you get the point.

Booooooooooooooo!
That's nice! Your own blog readers booing you.

Come on ENGLAND!

Wot No Theo

Terry plays it forward to Lampard. He knocks it wide to Ashley Cole. The cross comes in .....ROONEY!
1-0!

But do you hear what I hear?

Stupid Chav who can’t keep his flies up plays it foward to Fat Chav. Have another cake before you knock it wide to Ca$hley. Don’t get me started on that mug .....mobile phone.....only £50,000 a week...... The cross comes in ...SHREK!
1-0!


The club vs country dilemma rears it’s ugly head again. However, the other day I heard an explanation which will help me through the next month. Somebody on the radio said that your club is like your spouse. You choose your spouse. You love and cherish your spouse. They are your day to day.

“Have you put the bins out Love & can you pop to the shops as we’re very low on defenders and the goalkeepers have gone off?”

Your country are your family. You don’t choose them. You are born into them. No choice. I’m English. I’m stuck with it.

Like a family there will be people you love and feel close to. (Adams, Seaman, Dixon, Keown, Platt, Walcott.) There are members you don’t know very well but admire (Butcher, Lineker, Gazza, Shilton.) There are the people you’ve seen pictures of but don’t really know who they are. (Warnock, Milner, Hodge, Huddlestone, Hately!) And there are the people you are ashamed of. (Terry, Cole A, Lampard, Gerrard, Rooney .............)

I can’t wait for this World Cup to start. I love the thrill of watching North Korea take on Brazil. It’s our first Twitter World Cup and I’m looking forward to a banter filled evening with the American Gooners on Saturday. I’m going to enjoy every minute of football on all day every day. I’m grateful my family are involved I just don’t like them very much.

So wherever you are in the world get behind your family. I’m backing mine (through gritted teeth)

Cry God for Fabio, England and St George.