The Shape of Things to Come

'Two plus two equals HARRY FOR ENGLAND'

More bewildering news from the world of autobiographical serialisation as the greatest-manager-England-never-had-but-still-may-have-and-most-likely-still-will-end-up-with-at-some-point decided to follow such luminary commentators as Gary Lineker and, ahem us, in putting the boot into the FA for not being able to run the country properly, or something.

PlantagaBACKOFTHENET

"So wise so young, they say, do never live long."

Plantagenet line-leader Richard the Third of England has confirmed his availability for England duty as the national side prepare to face Brazil at Wembley. Third, last seen disappearing beneath a crowd of defenders at the notoriously feisty Bosworth Field on a wet and windy Tuesday night in 1485, declared himself ‘fit and raring to go’ having been confirmed as the skeleton dug up from a social services car park in Leicester in September.

A (Sort Of) Brave (Sort Of) New Dawn

David Bernstein kicks a ball at a child (presumably), yesterday

As half of the universe was hanging on the future of potentially the most significant export to come out of Belgium since waffles, waffle makers and confusing instances at Magic Spongers HQ when realising the difference between ‘Belgian’ and ‘Birds Eye’, something else was going on in the bowels of England’s national stadium.

The FA announced yesterday that the ‘shareholders’ (the county football associations) had voted to bring in “a new player pathway for football” with an 87% majority. After doubtless asking ‘what?’, the likelihood is that you’ve joined our initial response on these fair pages which was – quite reasonably – to ask the FA what the FUCK took so long?

Pearce. And Quiet

"How the hell did they find out about 'Bevington's Bollock Cabinet'?"

At the moment, the English national football team has no manager, no (full-time) captain and no Wayne Rooney. And the FA, thus far – perhaps wary of capacity issues in the ‘Bevington Bollock Cabinet’, the cupboard in Adrian Bevington’s office where all the previously dropped bollocks have been stored since sweeping them under the carpet got impractical and not a little messy – has offered no resolution.

Without the governing body to harangue, attention has turned largely to dismissing Stuart Pearce’s tenure as England manager as temporary, like some kind of Fabio Capello residue that needs a quick power-hosing off after this prearranged commitment at Wembley. Inevitable though it seems that he will be stripped of the job, the wilful carte blanche being applied to England’s performance at Euro 2012 could endanger Capello’s permanent successor as much as the perceived lack of pressure (relatively, of course) could benefit the squad’s performance.

The Road to Contrition

Disappointed by this, Dan Forman imagined this [pours on fuel, lights match, stands back...]:

Having had the appropriate time to consider the FA's full report into Luis Suarez, Liverpool FC would like to make the following statement:

We accept the FA's findings in full and also accept the suspension from football given to Luis which we will not appeal. While we would legitimately have had the opportunity to further consider our response and delay the suspension, we think it is only right that to avoid any impression of 'playing' the system that the ban should begin with immediate effect.

No Spain, No Gain

We give up lads, you can have it

The FA, who can always be relied upon to completely miss a trick, abjectly failed to take advantage of some joint marketing potential last month, scheduling England’s friendly with Spain for Saturday (which is in November) and not for the weekend of Halloween (which wasn’t). You can’t help but get the feeling that a festival now associated with horror and scary stuff would suit the World Cup winners, because quite frankly, their squad is downright terrifying.

The English Patience

You can’t hear it in the car park. You poke your head around the door to the club shop, but nothing. Through the sliding glass doors and into reception, you can’t hear it. Going up the stairs and into the bowels of the stadium, slowly a dull thudding starts to play on the eardrums. Along the corridor, it’s now clearly in earshot. Past the gym and along to the manager’s office, a repeating bang-bang-bang, of forehead on wood, is clearly audible. Through the door and the manager is sitting there, Premier League scout opposite, looking exasperated.

“I don’t understand”, the manager says. “He’s a kid who’s hardly ever played for the national team, who’s never played in the Champions League, who doesn’t have any medals, who’s never moved clubs so has no sell-on clauses and who hasn’t played 100 club games in his career yet. And he’s worth MORE than £10m?” “But boss”, the scout says, exhaling with the air of a man about to attempt to explain the finer points of physics to an intellectually reticent monkey – this isn’t going to make sense, but it’s fundamental truth – “he’s English.”

Absolutely Brooking It

A man stands in a field, alone save for the deserted country road behind him and the rolling hills ahead. A dignified man, he looks around to see he is alone. He unzips his flies. He starts to piss. The gentle breeze, which before had rustled the leaves on the trees and had the corn swaying lightly on its stalks, picks up. Much to his chagrin, the wind flares still further and he gets a bit of piss on his trouser legs.

The harder he pisses though, the more the wind whips around him and the wetter his trousers become. Exhausted, he zips himself up. He's covered in piss. Trevor Brooking sighs and makes his way back to his car.

Armbands And Firebrands

"Just do what the fuck you want"

After a couple of weeks of nostalgia and pretending to be grown-ups, we thought it about time we had a good old rant. Wonder what our favourite subjects over at England have been up to? What? WHAT? He made him CAPTAIN? Oh goody...

There’s a certain laissez-faire that can creep in when you know you’re about to leave a job. Depending on how much you cared about it in the first place, it can sway from proudly maintaining your professionalism until the bitter end to basically, ahem, not giving a fuck anymore. Naturally, you don’t want anyone to notice that you can’t be arsed to make the brews, let alone the decisions, as your contract winds down. But when you start contradicting yourself, say, or ignoring your colleagues and give the impression that you’ll be glad when all this shit is someone else’s responsibility, you should expect to be exposed to the occasional shellacking.

FA Needs Futsal Up Arse

“How did players such as Luis Figo, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Robinho and Roberto Carlos develop skills that set them apart from other players?” the English FA’s website asks plaintively (and not unreasonably). “What did they do as youngsters that provided them with the basis to becoming some of the world’s best players?” it continues. Holy shit, I thought. The FA have cracked it. They’ve put two and two together and got four, rather than three or five or Prince William. The future of the nation’s youth development is finally upon us.