it's coming home

Samuel Beckett, Chekov, and Alan Shearer, were prone to muse about the particular being in the universal ball into the box.

God preserve us from the waffle of Alan Shearer telling us—again—how it is and how it will be. Which makes us want to jump from a high window, or even a low one to avoid England’s favourite son.

His English chums chortle and parrot the same 1966 spirit and all that shite, when and then and now.

Roy Keane brought in to add a bit of bite. He’s got to be on the right side of England’s might. Tell it like it is? Who are you trying to kid or outbid?

Super Ally, the ever-smiling, cheeky chappy. Scottish even. He supports England for commercial reasons. A true blue. It’s hard to see through the guise and seize the tax-avoidance prize of all that King-and- Country bile that so many Scots swear but so many more despise. A broth of nationalism and sectarianism in which he thrives.  

England playing that hideous corpse of an age-old game. Where’s Harry, again?

Even the moron’s moron, the bloated billionaire, Trump gets his penny-worth in. He debates which way the wind’s blowing from Canada and facts that have never been white enough. Right-wing legal suits follow whistle blowers, unless its signals blacks and sending them back. A cosy couple with arselicker supremo  Giovanni "Gianni" Infantino part of his crew.

Free speech and the Malvinas sounds like Marxism. Let’s see Messi carrying a banner, a man-of-the-people clue, when the endless wars will end and poor people will be allowed to speak —about genocide and Palestine, women and children killed too.  

Carry on with the game and wait for the England-less final and for the finale we all really want to see. Trump, on the big screens, being soundly booed by the Spanish, by the Argentinians by common humanity.

England has two years to bring something back. Four more years on. No more talking about Nobby and Bobby Moore.   

The beautiful game, what’s your refrain?

A commerative tattoo?