EXIT viz-a-vis ENGLAND!!! The Last Tattoo???
Sunday, June 27th, 2010
David Robert Joseph Beckham, O.B.E (1975 - ), ex-footballer, fashion mannequin, prize poseur, self-publicist, darling of sex-starved moms and star-struck wannabes; wunderkind of the tattoo studio, beauty parlour and celebrity sheep-pen. Lately, given the accolade of “ambassador” . By whom, for what? Being seen hobnobbing with the “right people”, are hardly diplomatic credentials. [ Thy hallowed presence certainly made no difference at the ball-busting butchery in Bloemfontein.] Does Mr. Got-Rich-Quick think he still wears the coveted captain’s armband sitting on a corporate throne of the V.I.P boxes. It ain’t Real Davey!
Dear patriotic readers, you pays your money, takes your choice.
The obituary of English soccer (to give it it’s correct name!) was written the day Mr. “Golden Balls” and Mrs “Posh”, aided and abetted by the fashionista fairies, financial flunkies and fast-buck fixers, who moved the goalposts, bent the rules and opened up the glory-hole for our hirsute hero and the other puffed-up ponces that turn-up to play in the, supposed, “theatre of dreams”.
Essex Boy “role model”, no doubt with one eye on the ball, crossed for more lucrative bounty. The grotesque possibilities and gross profits seemed endless for the paparazzi lover-boy and spicy songbird. Football, per se, to Joe Ordinary was a way of life, a default faith, a man’s game, a national pride of place. That was, what is? Vulgar vaudeville lorded over by product placement impresarios, suspect foreign hobbyists and media megalomaniacs. That is the end game. To quote, respectfully, a nautical maxim- “the captain stays on the bridge of a sinking ship“. Noticeably Mister D.B., and Missus , headed for the nearest lifeboat, decked-out luxuriously in advance ( no question).
The World Cup 2010 overfloweth with hope and expectation, but after the Titanic wreckage reeked by our sausage-eating Teuton cousins, we are left with a poisoned chalice of galling greed, gimcrack goonery and, de facto, gut-wrenching grief. The bitter lesson is, albeit history. Wouldn’t you just love to be in Davey’s boots, in Hollywood. The F.A. ( an ironic acronym for the English “Football Association”) will, as ever, rearrange the deckchairs, strike up the band, piss in the pot, and it’s business as usual. Keep a stiff upper lip, the losers are out yachting in some far away 5-star paradise. La Dolce Vita, Fabio.
Our hoodwinked children, especially, expect better, deserve better, so Messrs. Henpecked, Hype- and Hubris- junkie bunch of Prima Donnas and Gold-Diggers, cry foul, but it’s- ” All Over Now”! ( Apologies to Mick Jagger et al.)
The rest of us, well let’s all head out west to Glastonbury. (Hmmmmm)
