Sven The Fat Lady Sings
‘THEY may have resisted the urge to stick a pair of rimless spectacles and a couple of Cuban heels (both left feet) on a swede, but Sven Goran Eriksson still has lots of rotten veg thrown at him on the front pages.
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| ‘Always load the plates in a 4-5-1 formation’ |
Now Sven cant even defeat Northern Ireland, says the Mail as it sees Englands gilded footballing machine beaten by a single goal from the humdrum Northern Irish.
Eriksson is pictured looking typically pensive and unanimated – perhaps wondering if he remembered to put the dishwasher on and tell his Nancy where he was going – as his overpaid England footballers are humiliated.
Of course, what the lads salaries have to do with the result is a moot point. Perhaps if Beckham and Co. were paid less or, better yet, paid just enough to afford a single can of spam or a raw swede between them, they would enter the fray very lean, very mean and very hungry for victory.
But wages are not behind this England defeat. This latest shambles is the managers fault. And the Sun uses its front page to hail a TAXI FOR ERIKSSON, Englands hapless coach.
The one good thing about all this is that Sven, who has the word ZERO scrawled across his head in red ink on the Mirrors cover page, is not in charge of the England cricket team.
Sport is the big news story of the day, as Englands first XI, a few substitutes, the chap who brings out the drinks and you the fans take on the Australians in the Ashes decider.
Telling us what we can expect is Andrew Freddie Flintoff, who appears on the Suns front page, his powerful torso draped in the English flag, a bat resting on his shoulder like a yeomans pike.
I promise all Sun readers that every drop of sweat we have in our bodies will be left at the Oval, says Flintoff. We will give everything we have and more to win the Ashes back.
Hurrah!
So much for the players. But what can you at home, sat slumped in your armchairs and nursing a sore toenail that scored you a day off work do to help?
Wonder no more. Firstly, the Mail and Mirror produce pictures of Mrs Andrew Flintoff, the fragrant, lightly perspiring Rachel. In both shots shes wearing a mini skit and lacy vest-like top. And if thats not enough to get you ready for action, shes got her fingers crossed.
Secondly, there is a call to lift your voices to the very heavens and sing England home. Football fans can keep their In-ger-land chants as cricket lovers give full throat to Jerusalem, William Blakes motivating, if surreal, call to arms.
At 10.25 this morning, says the Mail with rheumy eyes and beating heart, Englands cricketers expect to hear the most rousing version of Jerusalem ever delivered in this green and pleasant land.
(And in case youre confused, this is the same land the Mail routinely tells is covered in a film of regurgitated alcopops, overrun by unpleasant hoodies and snarling spit-roasting footballers.)
And the paper wants you to join in. Run your Cross of St George boxer shorts up a broom handle, hoist it high over your head and sing along.
And did those feet in ancient time, happen to stand on Shane Warnes fingers…’
Posted: 8th, September 2005 | In: Tabloids Comment | TrackBack | Permalink
