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INTERNATIONALS - GIVE US A BREAK 19-10-06
Peter Holmes
Ye Old Smoggy gobshite is back with a vengeance after going suspiciously AWOL last time out, so the three of you who regularly read my missive known as; 'Letter from Australia', will get a bit more inspiration for your next bowel movement over the next paragraph or eleventy seven.
Oops! I'll better make that four readers, as my septuagenarian Ma-in-law regularly logs on to see what a foul-mouthed uncouth bugger her lovely daughter married!
My excuse, you may ask, for not putting fingers to keyboard in the middle of last week was, being snowed under with work, but in truth I used another excuse when I wrote a sicknote to our beloved leader of COB and founder of the head-bangers of the heavy metal militia, Iron SteveG, by using the international break as my excuse.
"Look Doctor, I need a week off from my regular article at ComeOnBoro."
"What's the problem Erimus old chap?"
"Oh! It's that bloody international break giving me jip again!"
"You know what Erimus, I really like you!" the Doctor exclaimed totally out of the blue.
I retorted, "I'm rather fond of you too Doc!"
So, we danced for a while.....
Initially I may have blamed the group battles of Euro 2008 for my loss of inspiration, but the lack of a Boro game was also a major reason for my writing bludge wedded to the continued hangover from that dismal result against the boisterous Blades at Bramall Lane.
That fact was also pointed out to me by a couple of muckers, Magpie Mark and the Big Yin over a few Guinness' in the local the other night. They agreed it was probably wise to avoid typing the thoughts between my lugs as I was actually on a Boro induced downer and because it's hard to write a whole article full of negative profanity!
In truth, that night we were all a bit mellow due to the present form of our own teams. Mark supports the Toon and Big Yin supports the Gers. Just a bunch of sad bastards propping up the bar and blubbering in our ales.
Those international breaks are now a bona-fide feature of the fixture list, manfully crow-barred into the already overloaded schedule by the FA's fixturologist. They are becoming bloody disruptive though.
Effectively enshrined in the programme all because for centuries the 'Collective United National Teams Society' (I'll refrain from using the acronym as my Ma-in-law is reading) got together and whinged incessantly about the fact that their coaches and managers were not spending enough time with their players.
In my common sense Middlesbroughness, I couldn't see a problem as the answer is obvious and quite simple, I mean, what else does the national coach or team manager have to do between games apart from the Sun crossword?
We all know well that during his tenure the ex-England shag-master always had his hands full, literally, and had a viable excuse because randy old Sven Rubberballs used to roister everything in knickers. So he was always busy between conquests, I mean games.
Now surely if McClaren wants to see more of his players he should get in the FA Jagwar, scoot off to Manchester, Liverpool or London and take the players out for a fish supper, a few pints and a game of dominoes in the local werkies club!
As a big fan of the International game, I can see the sound reasoning behind it all with the need to allow a group of players from different clubs to be given time to gel their superstar stellar skills, to fuse then bond as members of the national football team. Which, in truth, in the case of Engurland, becomes a veritable soirée of multi-millionaires convening for a social get together to swap anecdotes about their latest acquisition on the stock market, show off their designer gear, talk about which model Ferrari is de rigueur and what piece of real-estate they have recently acquired.
Then, when some of the richest post pubescent souls on the planet have a few minutes or ninety left from their hectic 'world revolves around my head' schedules, they vacuously yawn, pull on the three lions, slip on the sponsors boots for a gentle sweat. As they cross that line to enter the arena they instantly forget everything they've ever been taught about the game and it's tactics, how to give blood for the cause, the flag of St.George.
Paradoxically, they spend more time together than England squads of history but play like a bunch of disparate strangers suffering from myopia and ingrowing toe-nails.
So, what's the point of it all I ask?
I mean, these constant intrusions into the flow of the competitive season may be OK if your team has won or eked out a worthy away draw before the break. But, if your Beloved have lost, then worse still been wupped by the club who were bottom of the pile when you should have won, it's an awful long time suffering before the next game. Then to compound it all, your other Beloved the England national team, give you no respite from your sullen misery by playing like a bunch of one legged habitual masturbators with inflamed haemorrhoids.
Mind you, mirth and merriment was well served by THAT dual own goal by Nevilrob.
It was a veritable comedy classic, not only in it's 'Little Britain' execution but in the sense of it's world-class comic timing. At that very split second that Robinson (serves you right for playing for Leeds United) attempted to kick that ball beyond row Z, it hit a mysterious divot, then, as it bobbled over his fully committed boot it began it's journey.
Slowly rolling into the empty net at the point the electronic advertising hoarding changed the money spinner to an advert for 'Borat', the movie, resplendent with the piss-taking gurning visage of the phantom Kazakhstani.
Priceless irony you couldn't devise or pay for in a million years!
Life's like that and shit certainly happens, quite often in relation to the England team.
I have it on good authority though, that a gentleman proudly wearing a tartan tam-o-shanter and a no kecks kilt, reportedly from the terrorist group the 'International League of Sweaty Socks', was seen in that very vicinity of the ground prior to the game burying a remote controlled pop-up divot!
Middlesbrough though actually profited from that enforced break as it gave Gareth a chance to talk tactics with his lovely wife Allison, who bluntly told him, 'you're a scruffy bugger Gate'. So off he scuttled to get his suit from the dry-cleaners, on went the Boro tie and we beat the excellent never say die Everton with a display of testicles.
A very good win against a team possessing the feisty Tim Cahill, the best Australian player on the planet, Everton have impressed me many times this season with the type of collective team play and will to win that England could only dream about. We would do well ourselves to use their pressing, collective, gutsy style as an example.
Is there something to look forward to next up as it's the big North East blockbuster against the embattled Magpies?
That lucky tie Gareth was wearing will hopefully help us win two in a row and finally Boro will get into a vein of consistent form that has eluded us for a century or so!
Enough said,
ErimusRed.
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