to many of us sunday will represent the first time the england men’s football team has made the final of a major international competition in their lifetime, to some it will be the second time, to others, it will just be sunday, but to two redcafe stalwarts, @Penna and @oates, it will be the culmination of a convert, deep state operation, decades in the planning.
as many switched on and enlightened fans have noticed, the english like nothing more than getting drunk and smashing feck out of everything. it’s not a hobby. it’s not something done on a whim. it’s not something that is triggered or incited. it’s a calling, it’s a profession, it’s the national pride, it’s a way of life. it’s a rite of passage, a skill passed down through generations, taught by father to son before their first word is even spoken. my earliest memory is of me as a badly sun burnt lad screaming “die french scum” whilst i destroyed a watermelon with a claw hammer. my father watching on, tattooing a tear drop falling from his eye as he was too hard to cry/had been bummed in prison.
this tournament should have been no different, scared foreigners fleeing as host of brave english heroes lay waste to far flung towns and cities inferior to promised holy lands such as stoke and middlesborough, but a global pandemic, the likes of which has not been seen for many years, changed all that. thankfully, history has taught us pandemics do happen and luckily our leaders had foreseen this and failsafes were put in place.
a world where travel was not possible was countered by the planting cells of potentially violent english fans in the heartlands of other nations. seemingly mild mannered couples, hiding in plain sight, spending years forging a life in a foreign land, gaining the trust of locals, waiting for the call to be deployed, the call to fulfil their destiny.
come sunday, some immortal words will be uttered and whether that be “and england have won it” or “england fall agonisingly short once again,” penna and oates will leap into action, their kill switch activated. shocked locals will cower at the sight of penna angry pissing on the cobbled streets of tuscany, topless, whooping like a gibbon and whipping a bra filled with rocks around her head. all the while oates manfully attacks a stationary moped with a baton of cured meat, screaming most of the lyrics of vindaloo in the wrong order, before smearing “your brexshit” across shop windows in his own shit.
“why are they suddenly like this? she used to read to infirm at the hospice.”
“i never expected this. not from them.”
“they said they were supporting italy.”
“we should have just let england win.” one italian will say to the other, but in italian.
“they would have done this anyway.” another italian will knowingly nod, also in italian.
a trail of pissy destruction will worm its way across europe as other splinter cells of english converge and form super groups of purple rinsed warriors. cups of beer will ripple like on that bit in jurassic park to the sound of beer bellies being drummed as our gallant knights approach. each town looking like that bit in braveheart when gibson’s wife gets cut, you mug.
so spare a thought this sunday, no matter what you think of england or english, no matter whether you want england to win or lose, this will happen. spare a thought for penna and oates, for you it’s just a game, for them, it’s the culmination of years of training and government spending, it’s the fulfilling of their purpose on this earth, it’s their raison d’etre.
brexit means brexit. go well lads and lasses, go well.
as many switched on and enlightened fans have noticed, the english like nothing more than getting drunk and smashing feck out of everything. it’s not a hobby. it’s not something done on a whim. it’s not something that is triggered or incited. it’s a calling, it’s a profession, it’s the national pride, it’s a way of life. it’s a rite of passage, a skill passed down through generations, taught by father to son before their first word is even spoken. my earliest memory is of me as a badly sun burnt lad screaming “die french scum” whilst i destroyed a watermelon with a claw hammer. my father watching on, tattooing a tear drop falling from his eye as he was too hard to cry/had been bummed in prison.
this tournament should have been no different, scared foreigners fleeing as host of brave english heroes lay waste to far flung towns and cities inferior to promised holy lands such as stoke and middlesborough, but a global pandemic, the likes of which has not been seen for many years, changed all that. thankfully, history has taught us pandemics do happen and luckily our leaders had foreseen this and failsafes were put in place.
a world where travel was not possible was countered by the planting cells of potentially violent english fans in the heartlands of other nations. seemingly mild mannered couples, hiding in plain sight, spending years forging a life in a foreign land, gaining the trust of locals, waiting for the call to be deployed, the call to fulfil their destiny.
come sunday, some immortal words will be uttered and whether that be “and england have won it” or “england fall agonisingly short once again,” penna and oates will leap into action, their kill switch activated. shocked locals will cower at the sight of penna angry pissing on the cobbled streets of tuscany, topless, whooping like a gibbon and whipping a bra filled with rocks around her head. all the while oates manfully attacks a stationary moped with a baton of cured meat, screaming most of the lyrics of vindaloo in the wrong order, before smearing “your brexshit” across shop windows in his own shit.
“why are they suddenly like this? she used to read to infirm at the hospice.”
“i never expected this. not from them.”
“they said they were supporting italy.”
“we should have just let england win.” one italian will say to the other, but in italian.
“they would have done this anyway.” another italian will knowingly nod, also in italian.
a trail of pissy destruction will worm its way across europe as other splinter cells of english converge and form super groups of purple rinsed warriors. cups of beer will ripple like on that bit in jurassic park to the sound of beer bellies being drummed as our gallant knights approach. each town looking like that bit in braveheart when gibson’s wife gets cut, you mug.
so spare a thought this sunday, no matter what you think of england or english, no matter whether you want england to win or lose, this will happen. spare a thought for penna and oates, for you it’s just a game, for them, it’s the culmination of years of training and government spending, it’s the fulfilling of their purpose on this earth, it’s their raison d’etre.
brexit means brexit. go well lads and lasses, go well.
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Brilliant. Sadly we'll be supporting Italy for this one but it may be part of our double-bluff, of course ....