Fuck England. No really, fuck England. I have spent my whole life getting excited with the approach of every major international football tournament, and every time they’ve let me down.
I’ve persevered; I’ve kept faith when everyone around me has lost theirs. I’ve dared to believe, even in the face of insurmountable logic, in the face of irrefutable reality. I remember Sol Campbell’s goal, back before we hated him, the winning goal; or at least it was until the replay showed Shearer elbow dropping the goal keeper. I was on my feet screaming with all the rest, but my heart was swelling with pride because that goal… had been scored by a Yid.
Judas cunt.
Then there was Gazza, an inch away from the extra time Golden Goal, a goal that would send Germany out of Euro ’96 and England into a winnable final. Another, albeit former, Tottenham player; playing under a former Tottenham manager.
So close, so very, very close.
Everyone was on their feet again; everyone but that cute Helen off of the Technical degree; posh and bemused, but thoroughly enjoying slumming it with me in a Manchester pub. Do you remember Euro ’96? It was only thirty years of hurt back then. It’s close to fifty now, fifty years without winning a major tournament. Winning a major tournament? Winning any tournament! We only get to play major tournaments. Major tournaments are just tournaments!
Forty six years. Forty six, fucking, years.
I got sucked in by all that Golden Generation hype. All those Chelsea and Liverpool and Man U players we had to put our faith in. We all scratched our heads as to why they couldn’t deliver for their country, why their form dropped when they weren’t surrounded by all those world class foreign professionals; the same world class foreign professionals that made them look good, week in week out, when they played for their clubs. What could it be?
It was because… England are shit. We’ve always been shit. There was that time in the nineties when we were ALRIGHT, but if you trace the national team’s history back to 1966 the running theme is disappointment. Forty six years of disappointment spiced with brief moments of elation, when we were very nearly good enough to reach a final.
1970, two nil up against West Germany, coasting; bang bang; then in extra time banged in the ass.
Then there was Maradona in 1986 with his Hand of God; our bitterness is still blinding us to his second, the greatest World Cup goal of all time.
In 1994 Greece proved you didn’t even need to be especially skilled to win a tournament, and we limped home pathetically early. In 1998 we got taken out by a combination of Rooney and Ronaldo.
Manc cunts. You can’t ever escape the Manc cunts.
So here we are now, Capello has failed. It seems he believed his own hype but he hadn’t contended with our inability to blame the quality of the players. He didn’t realize he was being paid handsomely to be the scapegoat when it all went wrong. He went to South Africa thinking he was dealing with men, not whiney little boys who missed their girls and wanted him to pat them on the head so they’d do their jobs properly.
Capello hadn’t contended with our willingness to fuck ourselves over before every major outing. He didn’t contend with the Media’s enthusiasm for throwing spanners into the works just as we had to get serious. He didn’t care who Terry was fucking then; he doesn’t care what Terry said this time around. He’s had enough, we’ve been talking about sacking since South Africa and now he’s sacked us. The man’s sick of us and we’re acting like we’ve been vindicated. Like a crap girlfriend who’s been dumped but is coming out all on top because 'she can do better'.
All this finally brings me to Harry Redknapp. All of a sudden the whole country is clamoring for Harry to bring England glory. A nation of Mancs and Gooners and dirty Scousers, who would have quite happily seen the man locked up yesterday just to get one over on Tottenham. Today they want him to lead them to success and isn’t it just a crying shame that we will be the collateral damage.
This is our best season in a generation; a real generation mind, not a footballing one. It’s the first time that we have the upper hand on our rivals since the Premier league started, the first time in my life we aren’t trundling in a poor second to the Arsenals and Liverpools and Chelseas; and now they rub their hands together at the prospect of it being taken away from us as the groundswell of public opinion screams out for Harry to take his 'rightful place' as the nation’s Messiah.
I disagree… I say… Fuck England. We’ve built to this point; we deserve to be where we are. The Jol era, finishing fifth; all those seasons a cunt hair away from the Champions League. Those years watching our best players fuck off to Manchester United, all those lasagna taunts. We have had to endure shitty City suddenly being showered with gold and turning into a contender over night. Manchester City taking the top four spot THAT WE’VE WORKED FOR!
We deserve to be where we are. We’ve earnt it. And now, just as we’re getting somewhere, everyone wants to knock us back down; they want to destabilize us. They want to fill Harry’s head full of national glory and thoughts of achieving the unachievable, and poor old Tottenham will be set back another season or two while the new manager establishes himself, City strengthens and the Scouse get back into the swing of things.
So I say fuck England. Harry’s fabled arm around the shoulders isn’t going to improve our chances against Spain and Germany. We’ll still be a quarter final team, no matter how t’riffic he makes the players feel. We’ll always be outclassed by class and a mediocre side punching above its weight will inevitably be found out. No amount of amusing after match interviews will change that.
In the end the only thing that will come of Harry Redknapp managing England will be yet another set back for Tottenham. Everyone will laugh at us again, they’ve already started. I hope to God Harry will see some sense; I hope he sees beyond the hype and realizes he could be a Tottenham legend instead of another England also-ran.
