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World Cup Willies[1]
A ‘New World’ World Cup beckons now,
We fly across the water,
To Mexico, Canada and Trumpland
To witness football slaughter.
Gone are the days of ’66.
The Wolstenholme restraint
As Hurst completed hat-trick
And a nation thought ‘How quaint.’
If we had known that triumph
Would become a yoke, oppressive,
Baddiel and Skinner[2] – all that hurt
For thirty years (excessive).
But thirty is now sixty,
And the hurt we carry still,
Is this the year when English hearts
Will know that victory thrill[3]?
Before you find me guilty
Of ignoring other teams,
Fear not – for there is Scotland, Alba,
Pictish hordes with dreams.
How glad we were when Scotland
Made it to the finals – magic!
The question can be asked, you see,
(Without it seeming tragic)
Will those in Tartan qualify
From Group C? Well, good question.
Brazil, Morocco, Haiti
Will baulk at the suggestion.
Whilst England (Group L) must contend
With Panama, Croatia, Ghana,
It’s not straightforward – every game
The skin of a banana.
And even those across the land
Who couldn’t give a monkeys,
With find themselves being forced
To pay attention like sad junkies
The offside rule will be mansplained
In the small hours of the morning[4]
To those well, less familiar,
To stop them all from yawning
Ten groups of four: the tournament
Has grown like Donald’s diapers:
It’s wall to wall, tomorrow through to
July 4th (no snipers).
The Tartan Army – welcomed to
Wherever they should play
They bring the party and the noise
Win, lose or draw, hooray!
The Barmy Army (English fans)
Should travel well, and hearty
But lack the Scottish panache
For the serious, blinding party.
A serious note – in tournaments
Domestic Violence rises
Some dear souls dread the coming month
As spouses shoulder crisis.
Across the road at A and E
How many will be found?
The victims of the morons
Turning lounge to battleground?
I wonder – how much will this month
Give rise to flaggish folly?
Cars, and lampposts, all designed
To make Reformers jolly.
I fear the worst, if truth be told
A summer laced with tension
Riots in Southampton point
To feelings of dissension.
Let’s hope not. Let us hope for peace
And fun, and real excitement,
And turn our backs on anything
That ranks as an incitement.
Who’s going to win? No, seriously!
It’s hard to look past Spain,
Or Argentina, France, Brazil
Could also bring the pain.
The funniest outcome in the world
Would see hosts Mexico
Lift the trophy in New York
While Trump looks on – Ho! Ho![5]
The saga done. The question is
Why such a poem long?
‘Because the bloody World Cup is’
Might be our plaintive song.
[1] This refers not to some bizarre male genital-themed occurrence at the forthcoming World Cup, but is a play on words based on the England World Cup mascot for 1966 (‘World Cup Willy’) and the state of confusion which the tournament will doubtless cause among those it infects. Memo to self: If it needs explaining, it’s not funny.
[2] Alongside the Lightning Seeds.
[3] No.
[4] Haiti vs. Scotland begins at 0200 BST.
[5] So much for the Wall.
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