The Welcome Death of Golden Balls and MacDonut

It has been a shit couple of weeks. Mailer is dead, my good friend Paul and his family are up for eviction from their house and the England football team has managed to fuck up a golden gift from the old country and lose to Croatia, thus putting us out of the European championships.

I was not only angry with the England team and management, but the whole world. In the 24 hrs that followed our elimintaion I realised that the summer would be spent with the with and kid instead of down the boozer with my mates watching footy. During these thoughts I saw everything that was wrong with the F.A, the world, the country and myself.

The dissapointment one feels in defeat is meat and drink to the average football fan, but is it arrogant to expect the England national football team to qualify for one of only two major tounaments?
Am I misguided to expect us as a footballing nation to achieve a greater points total in our qualifying group than Israel?

The heart break that comes with defeat in a major tournament is an unberable feeling of total collapse. A huge mega-structure of stress and hope is suddenly made to look insignificant and minute as a gargantuan earthquake sucks it from the dreamcast down to the lowly ground level base that is reality. Tears are shed and wave after wave of depression slips over you and drags you down so you cannot function in your usual manner. In time, your only ally, hope begins to re-introduce you to the normal world. Hope helps you realise that the golden fleece is still within grasp, there is always the next tournament, you never know, this time, it could be ours... The shot at glory... You slowly put the shell toe trainers back on, because you have stopped boycotting Adidas, fuck it, they're made in Nepal any way and they're as German as your cor blimey Gran's bowels full to the brim with a full English.

But not even getting a snif, wink, feel of that chance is beyond despair. It doesn't bring depression, but rage.
Rage against the bearded baldy cunts at the F.A, who lie like cunts more than politicians, who employ mickey mouse cunts with no fucking clue to take charge of our dreams, who play fucking over paid cunts who are walking adverts for razors, aftershaves, designer suits and cuntness.
These people have pretended for far too long that they really care and that they really believe in the fans.
The England team is captained by a man who laughed, while pissed out of his brains at Americans in tears, at an airport watching the twin towers fall on t.v. the team also boasts a right little fucking herbert who left his boyhood club because they wouldn't pay him £65,000 a week, they only offered him the paltry sum of £60,000 per week (poor little love).
This nation of ours has the front to keep saying we invented the beautiful game. But there is nothing beautiful about England's national team. If Italy is Monica Belluci then England are the fucking Spice Girls in both the looks and class department.
Our nation is bored and it's getting boring. Our films are boring kitchen sink dramas, or they're fucking middle class cunty boring bollocks starring Hugh Grant. Our music industry is dying under the clouds of mediocrity, Athlete anyone, come on, roll up, they're the bollocks, just like Kaiser Chiefs, Snow Patrol and Kasabian, fuck me.
It's all so boring, boring, boring.
England is no longer dreaming, it is yawning and I blame the F.A for the fucking Jewson lot.