Thursday, July 27, 2006
Review of "Superman Returns"
Craptonite.
# posted by Flann O'Brien @ 2:39 AM
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Worldovision World Cup
It's hard not to feel sorry for the English really. I mean: to see all those St George Cross flags being desultorily taken down from the pubs and the council block windows, the Dunkirk spirit of the fans, as, noble in defeat, they take their baldy skin-heads out of the sunshine back in the dank recesses of the end of what was the English summer, as they heartily buoy their spirits by joking and laughing, and in general keeping up their upper lips stiff, and all.
I'm not sure that any people of the face of the earth have quite as many apt phrases and idioms to describe nobility in defeat as the English. I wonder what that means.
Nobody yet seems to have noticed that the thickly necked, potato-headded centre forward that ruined all their chances happens to be of Irish extraction. A subtle ploy? Revenge for Skibbereen perhaps, and 900 years of oppression, as England bow (not quite the right word, attempt a bow, stumble forward and bust their lip on the edge of the pavement more like) out of the quarter finals of a major tournament, again, on penalties. Was it planned all along, was it the result of years of Irish genetic selection, a fifth column of scouser strikers, waiting to, er, strike by not eh, striking? Far be it from me to start and internet based conspiracy theory.
Ironically, it is to another Irishman that I think the English need to turn in order to take this tragedy, and use it as a vehicle to take on board the lessons of Germany ought-six, and move forward to a brighter and better footballing future.
"But who Glen?", I hear you ask, "surely you must be aware that Steve McLaren has already taken over the reins as England manager, and that that decision is final, we can't just get a different manager in now - he must be given a chance".
Indeed, that hadn't escaped my notice.
"But, surely you're not suggesting Joe Kinnear (technically not an Irishman really, but a former Ireland international) should get the job instead, replace McLaren before he even starts?"
Nope, that that either.
"You can't be thinking of ex-Leeds hard-men Johnny Giles an Eammon Dunphy can you?"
Not them either, as it happens.
"Who? Please tell us, who can lift England from this Slough of Despond and rekindle our hopes for future footballing success?".
Who? I'll tell you who. Terry Wogan that's who!
"Eh, Tel-boy? Ehm, well, you know, we like him on the radio and all, but what's he got to do with football? Oh and in the Eurovision too...."
And that's exactly my point. What England needs is Terry Wogan commentating on every England football match whenever and wherever they play. You see my thesis is that you English just take football too seriously. What you need it that little lilting, wry, ironic Irish brogue of Terry Wogan, gleefully commenting your opposition out of existence - and if you win, sure that's a nice little earner for the boys in the team - and why not, sure don't they deserve it for running around like lunatics for 90 minutes - and if not - well you can have a good old laugh along with Tel-boy about what a dreadful funny spectacle the whole thing is anyway, and you never took it seriously in the first place, and "shur, will you look at them big brazillian eejits, don't they look like big ould Fifes bananas in blue shorts there ,running about like mad things. Sure if that's what you have to wear to win, we'd much rather have those nice fetching England white shirts, now wouldn't we....?". Or - "well, the poor old Portugese, didn't they lose their empire and their national identity - a trip to the semis will do them the power of good, and sure we can go there any time we feel like it - shur will you look at them anyway, the big portugese eejits, don't they look like a pile of little schoolboys in their big ould winey coloured shirts, running around like mad things. Reminds me of the old alma mater unifrom, St Concepta's school for young Limerick offenders, that I went to. Sure if that's what you have to wear to win etc etc".
We could even turn it over the the great telephone voting public of Europe and the world to decide who actually wins - just by the sheer volume of people that seem to phone in to these things in Britain (Big Brother and the like: apparrently more people voted in the evictions than voted in the last general election) you're bound to win (eventually).
Of course I may have my own, selfish reasons for suggesting that. Given Ireland's track record in the vile tacky schmaltz that is the Eurovision, we'd be bound to end up, at long last, winning the world cup. Now that's what I call revenge for Skibbereen.
But far be it from me to start any internet based conspiracy theories.....
I'm not sure that any people of the face of the earth have quite as many apt phrases and idioms to describe nobility in defeat as the English. I wonder what that means.
Nobody yet seems to have noticed that the thickly necked, potato-headded centre forward that ruined all their chances happens to be of Irish extraction. A subtle ploy? Revenge for Skibbereen perhaps, and 900 years of oppression, as England bow (not quite the right word, attempt a bow, stumble forward and bust their lip on the edge of the pavement more like) out of the quarter finals of a major tournament, again, on penalties. Was it planned all along, was it the result of years of Irish genetic selection, a fifth column of scouser strikers, waiting to, er, strike by not eh, striking? Far be it from me to start and internet based conspiracy theory.
Ironically, it is to another Irishman that I think the English need to turn in order to take this tragedy, and use it as a vehicle to take on board the lessons of Germany ought-six, and move forward to a brighter and better footballing future.
"But who Glen?", I hear you ask, "surely you must be aware that Steve McLaren has already taken over the reins as England manager, and that that decision is final, we can't just get a different manager in now - he must be given a chance".
Indeed, that hadn't escaped my notice.
"But, surely you're not suggesting Joe Kinnear (technically not an Irishman really, but a former Ireland international) should get the job instead, replace McLaren before he even starts?"
Nope, that that either.
"You can't be thinking of ex-Leeds hard-men Johnny Giles an Eammon Dunphy can you?"
Not them either, as it happens.
"Who? Please tell us, who can lift England from this Slough of Despond and rekindle our hopes for future footballing success?".
Who? I'll tell you who. Terry Wogan that's who!
"Eh, Tel-boy? Ehm, well, you know, we like him on the radio and all, but what's he got to do with football? Oh and in the Eurovision too...."
And that's exactly my point. What England needs is Terry Wogan commentating on every England football match whenever and wherever they play. You see my thesis is that you English just take football too seriously. What you need it that little lilting, wry, ironic Irish brogue of Terry Wogan, gleefully commenting your opposition out of existence - and if you win, sure that's a nice little earner for the boys in the team - and why not, sure don't they deserve it for running around like lunatics for 90 minutes - and if not - well you can have a good old laugh along with Tel-boy about what a dreadful funny spectacle the whole thing is anyway, and you never took it seriously in the first place, and "shur, will you look at them big brazillian eejits, don't they look like big ould Fifes bananas in blue shorts there ,running about like mad things. Sure if that's what you have to wear to win, we'd much rather have those nice fetching England white shirts, now wouldn't we....?". Or - "well, the poor old Portugese, didn't they lose their empire and their national identity - a trip to the semis will do them the power of good, and sure we can go there any time we feel like it - shur will you look at them anyway, the big portugese eejits, don't they look like a pile of little schoolboys in their big ould winey coloured shirts, running around like mad things. Reminds me of the old alma mater unifrom, St Concepta's school for young Limerick offenders, that I went to. Sure if that's what you have to wear to win etc etc".
We could even turn it over the the great telephone voting public of Europe and the world to decide who actually wins - just by the sheer volume of people that seem to phone in to these things in Britain (Big Brother and the like: apparrently more people voted in the evictions than voted in the last general election) you're bound to win (eventually).
Of course I may have my own, selfish reasons for suggesting that. Given Ireland's track record in the vile tacky schmaltz that is the Eurovision, we'd be bound to end up, at long last, winning the world cup. Now that's what I call revenge for Skibbereen.
But far be it from me to start any internet based conspiracy theories.....
# posted by Flann O'Brien @ 2:49 AM
