The morning after a bad England performance is usually a good time to be out of England, or at least out of reach of the papers.
Jeremy Robsonis out of England, but it doesn’t stop him entering rant mode. Never mind the controversy, he says, feel the lack of depth …
Not let down, or disappointed, but humiliated. It’s as simple as that.
I didn’t expect England to win the World Cup, far from it. My expectations were not high. I wasn’t optimistic when I saw Capello’s squad and witnessed the preparations he was making while banking 6 million quid for the trouble.
When the machinations of the group left us to face the Germans in the last 16 it seemed like a good way to be able to leave South Africa. We’d put up a bit of a show, some fight. There’d be some grit and spirit, doubtless some controversy. This is obligatory against the Germans. We would lose, and gain some admiration for the manner of the loss. It would be typical England World Cup fare, out manoeuvred by the workmanlike efficiency of a well organised disciplined German outfit that we just couldn’t match.
But oh no! We were beaten by a team that really didn’t have to try that hard or play that well. Wilting like an uprooted daffodil as soon as Klose ran down the middle.
Our two forwards (three if you count Heskey and consider this waste of ectoplasm a forward), who didn’t get a shot on goal in an hour and a half. An apology of a winger that seemed to think that getting beyond the full back was beyond him. James Milner has the pace of a Trabant with a worn out clutch. He has the credentials for international football that would make Justin Timberlake look like a shoo-in should the surviving members of Led Zeppelin decide to reform without Robert Plant.
Humiliation isn’t the end of it. I was sat watching this game with my eight-year-old son who is experiencing the World Cup for the first time. He went quiet as the English collapse continued in the second half going to 3-1, and then he started to cry. His tears were more of bewilderment than anything else. At eight, your emotions all come out the same. It’s far too young to be feel humiliated by your national team. Thank goodness.
When I was nine, I watched my first World Cup. England’s team consisted of the two Bobbys: Charlton and Moore, with the former’s brother Big Jack, Alan Ball, Francis Lee, “Banks of England” in goal, and Norman Hunter. Legends of the game, men of principle of stout heart who justifiably earned the respect of the rank and file English football supporters. Contrast this with the pitiful excuses for men that wore and shamed the English shirt yesterday.
Today we have players with a predilection for anal stimulation with a mobile phone, another who paid for sex with grandmothers at a Merseyside brothel, and another that couldn’t keep his hands off a team mate’s missus. Is it any wonder it turned out like they did.
“Three lions on the shirt”: I wonder what three scroats would look like?
If any of this current crop had the intellect of a low fat yoghurt they would cringe at how they compare with their forbears. One of the most glaring observations that I made during this tournament was the complete lack of awareness that this lot had about the feelings of the average fan.
I really rather doubt whether any of them read much. On the rare occasion that they do they probably jump right to the end of an article or book to see if it has a happy ending. I hope that maybe one of them will read this in which case I have simple message for every one of them. I hope you feel as humiliated as the rest of us. Now f*** off!