Escape to Victory

Now let me explain why I’m watching a film that is some 28 years old. As I suspect is true of most parents, I’m living vicariously through my children. From visiting lower league football grounds to watching old films unwatched in decades, I’m using the fact that I have a 12-year old son as an excuse for some fairly juvenile behaviour. I am in that halcyon window between the kids being too young to appreciate anything I show them and that teenage period where I will be too embarrassing to be seen with. Continue reading “Escape to Victory”

Tom Finney

Tom FinneyKnown as the Preston Plumber, this 76-times capped winger is still considered one of the greatest British players of all time.  He became an apprentice plumber at 14, a trade he continued all his working life, even at the height of his international fame.  Yet during the 40s and 50s he was never paid any more than any other player, getting just the £20 a week maximum wage.  These days, of course, he could earn a fortune – simply by working as a plumber.  In 1952 Italian side Palermo offered him a £10,000 signing on fee, £130 a month wages, bonuses of up to £100 a game, a Mediterranean villa, a luxury car and free travel to and from Italy for his family.  They also offered Preston £30,000 by way of a transfer fee.  This was 1952 and such sums of money were unimaginable.  Finney turned it down.  Even then being a plumber was lucrative work.  “Tom Finney would have been great in any team, in any match and in any age. . . even if he had been wearing an overcoat.” – Bill Shankly.

Ode to Andy Murray

On the occasion of tennis superstar Andy Murray upsetting the sensibilities of the English nation by saying he’d not support their bid for World Cup glory.

In deepest, darkest, poshest Surrey
Wee Ingerlunders are in a flurry
They rant and rave but he disnae worry
You’ve got to love wee Andy Murray

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t care
Andy Andy Murray

Wi a barnet like that I’ve got a hunch
He’s a refugee fae the Hair Bear Bunch
But he makes the Inglish spew their lunch
And Henman’s got a face yid love to punch

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t care
Andy Andy Murray

He widnae back Ingerlund as a last resort
He’d rather hae VD or a genital wart
But jist to show that he’s a guid sport
He’ll wear a Portugal top on centre court

Andy Murray
Andy Murray
Andy Andy Murray
He’s got shite hair
But we don’t careAndy Andy Murray

Anyone But England

Written on the occasion of the 2006 World Cup and in the wake of ‘controversy’ over Wee Jack’s declaration of support for Trinidad and Tobago.

What’s so bad
About supporting Trinidad?
If ah may say so
Ah can follow Tobago
If ah want

Ah’m the kind of guy
That quite likes Paraguay
And if it suits my needs
Ah’ll be behind the Swedes
So shut it

Italy or Ukraine,
Brazil, Switzerland or Spain
Poland or Japan
Germany, Ghana or Iran
Whoever

Any eejit can see
I’ll be supporting A.B.E.
And if that’s sad
Well it’s just too effin bad.
So there

Ah dinnae care
If I get a row fae Tony Blair
I’m Scottish to the hilt
So get it right up your kilt
Ya bass

C’moan T and T
C’moan Russell Latapy
Anyone But England dis for me
A.B.E.
A.B.E.
A.B.E.

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ cuckoo clocks

Cheese wi holes and loads o’ snow

And sledging wi John Noakes

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ army knives

Mountains, lakes and chocolate

And such dreary little lives

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

Land o’ secret bankers

Ye’ve gaen up being neutral

And stuffed them English wankers

Switzerland, oh Switzerland

There is nae praise higher

Than for Scots tae toast the land

That gied us Ursi Meier

Referee, oh referee

Yer Scottish in disguise

Oh thank you Herr McMeier

Noo try a kilt for size

Ode to Zinedine Zidane

Wan nil to Ingerlund

Wi 90 minutes gone

Tyldesley’s daen ma nut in

But hang oan here’s Zidane

He’s lining up a free kick

Gaun yersel big man

Calamity for Calamity

Ya beauty it’s wan wan

Ah’m supposed tae be neutral

First Minister an aw that

But even David Blunkett

Can see Gerard’s a prat

A hospital pass tae Calamity

He’s ta’en the legs aff Henry

The ref’s pointed tae ra spot

Help ma boab a penalty

Get it up ye, get it up ye

Get it up ye Tony Blair

Your boys took a beating

Fae a man wi no much hair

Bigot Ron Atkinson

Blimey, can a man not speak his mind these days without the politically correct brigadiers getting all hot under their collars?

Big Ron Atkinson, the working man’s microphonist, said a couple of things he didn’t mean anyone to hear and suddenly the poor bloke’s lost his job. Bleedin ridiculous if you ask me.

Okay, so he shouldn’t have called Marcel Desailly a f***ing lazy ni***r out loud with people listening but he was just making a private comment within the privacy of his own broadcasting booth. It’s hardly his fault it was heard in Dubai and Bahrain. I know he shouldn’t have used the ‘f’ word but it was the heat of the moment and anyways, we’re all grown-ups.

As for this business of calling black people coloured — or is it calling coloured people black? I can’t keep up — well Big Ron is just a man of his time. Look at it this way, he was brought up watching the Black and White Minstrel Show in a time when everything was black and white, there was no colour. Bleedin natural that some of it is going to stuck, innit?

Just because he looks down on black people and thinks it is okay to call them by some quaint old-fashionable names, that don’t make him a racist does it? Bigot Ron is just one of the lads and uses the kind of language that you would find any racist using down the pub of a Sunday afternoon.

When Bigot Ron was manager of West Bromwich Albino he had more black players in his team that anyone else. He wouldn’t do that if he was a racist, now would he? It’s like the old landowners in olden days who brought slaves over from Africa and gave them a job and a roof over their heads. Racists my arse.

Peoples are just too politically corrected these days and you can hardly find a programme on the telly any more where the black chap is the butt of the white man’s jokes. What’s that if not flippin racist?

I tell you this, people go on about Love Thy Neighbour and say how it wasn’t funny but it was a flippin scream. I say bring it back, much better than some of the rubbish comedies they have on today like The Office or EastEnders. And don’t go thinking I’m a racist either, I used to really fancy that black woman that played the wife next door.

Bigot Ron is like me, just a man who speaks his mind. He is like your perfect microphonist because he says things so bleedin dolly that you think to yourselfs, ‘I could do that. I could say something as stupid as that if I had seven pints inside me.’

Now he has said one thing too stupid too far and they want to crucifix him. It’s like that film, The Passion of the Christ. Bigot Ron is Jesus and the politically correct brigadiers are the Romans. Or the Jews, whoever it was. And the ‘f’ word and the ‘n’ word are the nails. And his microphone is the crown of horns. And it’s nowhere near bleedin Easter. Blimey.

Listen, I always say that just because a washer has been used before doesn’t mean it can’t be used again. It can be resurrected and put to good use elsewhere. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Non-racist Ron will rise again and walk among us once more. I say we should start a campaign. Bring back the Racist One.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb.

Goldenballs

Blimey, I can’t believe all this locomotion about Sir David Beckham and this bit of Spanish skirt he’s supposed to have been knocking up. Can’t a man have any fun these days without it being plastered all over the bleedin papers?

This Loos woman who he’s been doing shooting practice with ain’t much of a looker but maybe she likes the tumble dryer on full tilt if you get my meaning. Many a man will tell you that if his smalls get a good wringing out a couple of times a week then it don’t matter if the dryer has to be hidden away in a cupboard. After all, you don’t look at the cistern while you are pumping the toilet, now do you? And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

So what if Beckham did give her one? Look he’s a fit, young bloke with normal bloke urges. His missus is away making music so he makes hay while the sun shines. And let’s face it, he’s in Spain so the sun shines all the flippin time. What does she expect him to do? Think of Gary Neville and hope it goes away? Course not.

Look the man is a bleedin demi-God and women are throwing themselves at him, luring him with paella and sangria and tickets for bullfights and all sorts. He may be a demi-God but he’s only flippin human. Listen, I’ve been to Torremo-bleedin-linos and I know what them sultry senoritas are like. Can’t keep their hands off us white men.

And anyways let’s face it, Lady McBeckham is hardly the kind of woman to keep a man happy is she? She’s so flipping arachnaphobic she makes the ladies of the Auschwitz dieting club look like Vanessa Feltz. I’ve seen more meat in a McDonald’s hamburger. Well, not really.

What is it with the mongrel press in this country? They can’t be happy just with pictures of Beckham’s latest haircut, oh no. They have to go printing the flipping truth all the time. Who’s interested in that? Makes me bleedin blood boil so it does. These tabloid journalists, these scumnalists, they should be strung up by their exclusives.

It’s high time the press in this country went back to the days when they kept things from the working man that they didn’t need to know. The old kings and the old queens used to be at it like rabbits and no-one was ever the wiser. The dear old Queen Mum once had the entire 3rd division of the Household Cavalry one cold winter’s night but you never read about that in the Daily Mirror did you? Instead we had proper stories about the price of bread, the suffering of the little Biafrans and the role of women in the workplace. Proper bleedin news, not stuff the likes of us don’t need to know. Blimey.

Look mate, if Beckham scores against the Froggies in Euro 2004 then I don’t care if he scores with every senorita between here and Barca-bleedin-lona. And what’s more I don’t want to read about it or see pictures of it. Well, unless the bird is better looking than that one he was shagging last week obviously. No offence meant.

And you know what? Do you? If Beckham isn’t absolutely flippin brilliant this summer then it will be the tabloid scumnalists’ fault for putting him right off his game. Bleedin treason so it is.

Come on you newspaper executors, get your act together. More stories about starving Biafrans. Less stories about Beckham’s nookie. It’s the patriotic thing to do.

Plumb on.

Peter Plumb