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By Mr Goose Well I promised you a year full of shit and derision, and with World Cup Fever gripping the planet, websurfers need not feel disappointed. The headline breaking news from our tiny island is...
Senile delinquent Gazza, AKA Paul Gascoigne has been dropped from the England squad for being pissed, fat, old and useless. Countless column-kilometres have been occupied by talentless drivel attempting to describe how single-digit-IQ Gazza is also a wife-beater and cry-baby too. He's renowned for snivelling in public on the frequent occasions when he fails to kick the ball in the direction that his mono-cellular brain decides it should go.
Apparently England's mismanager Glen Hobble reckons that after a night on the tiles, the overpaid Geordie lager-lout can hardly see the ball, let alone kick it and is therefore unfit to play at international level. Surprising really since I thought Gazza possessed all the qualities required to knock a ball about for England.
Being a goose, I have two large webbed feet that aren't much use for anything except walking around on and paddling around in puddles - like much of the English team I suspect. Consequently, I find playing football (US: soccer) is about as much fun as sniffing a pile of mouldy old goose poo.
Sorry footy fans, but everyone knows that England is crap at football. The last time England won the World Cup was in 1966 when it just scraped a few balls by West Germany. This was when I was a mere gosling, and before most websurfers were even born . Yet the Brits drone on and on about it, “Two world wars and one world cup, doo-dah, doo-dah.” Idiots! Who cares? Is this really the ideal foundation stone for world peace that the World Cup's protagonists claim?
We should give-up and wave the white flag immediately! Failing that, if the UK adopted America's ineffective gun laws, some public-spirited individual could shoot Gazza and put him out of his misery - and ours! Recent figures suggest the US makes 16,000 firearms a day - and plenty of bullets too. Someone, somewhere should be able to get him! Why should this be illegal, they shoot geese don't they?
Of course, whatever the British and Americans can screw up, the French reckon they can out-do simply by using a different screwdriver. One should be immediately suspicious of a government that mints Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite on its rather Mickey Mouse coinage.
So it is no surprise to a sceptical old goose that the Frogs have liberally hogged most of the tickets for themselves. They blame any cock-ups equally on FIFA rules and any other nation that has fraternally hosted the World Cup in the past!
Now soccer fans the world over can gaze in amazement at the rows of empty seats adorning the scores of Jerry-built French stadia, as bored TV camera operators pan from yet another dreary game. Meanwhile UK travel firms are having to refund millions of pounds to disappointed fans. Punters were told, “the plane and hotel are sorted okay, but there's a bit of a problem with the ticket for the match…” Never mind chaps, you can watch it on telly - all four and a half UK TV channels are swamped with the stuff!
And what about the poor old Jocks? Don't Laugh! Following Scotland's humiliating own goal, rock band Del Amitri's dreary anthem Don't Come Home Too Soon, cryptically aimed at Scotland's lack-lustre team of inept left-footers sounds a hollow ring in even the most ardent fan's ears. Mind you, most of us on both sides of the Scottish Border would prefer it if the hard-core of Scotland's permanently-pissed, poison-dwarf soccer thugs went away forever.
I'm sure half of them moved to London. You see them particularly at pub chucking-out time after a losing a match, singing Scotland The Brave - or something supposed to resemble it. Then they pick fights. Worthy opponents may include other fans, each other, police officers, police horses, passers-by, cars (no particular make preferred) and lamp posts. Whatever they attack they can usually see at least two of them.
An ageing relative - a very wise old goose - suggests that we send them to slug it out with all the equally-unpleasant English ones - in a large pit somewhere overseas! Real Life Gladiators, now there's an idea for Sky TV. I'll Email Mr Murdoch immediately!
A Divine Being might forgive the hooligans, for they know not what they do. Who can blame the poor old punch-up firms, when most of the world's media have bought into soccer too. Why? It's Britain's worst export ever - apart from rugby, cricket and the Austin Allegro! And top marks to the Americans for resisting all four for so long, but even you guys have succumbed to soccer!
World cup fever has also given many western nation's leaders some worrying delusions of grandeur. We're told that Prime Minister Blair made the ultimate sacrifice because he gave a speech just half-an-hour before kick off, thus risking missing the start of some World Cup match on TV.
Tony could have gone home and watched the game, we wouldn't have minded, honestly! Tony, do us all a favour! Sit down in front of the goggle box and watch all the footy you want and never utter another word, ever!
Should I be forced to watch any of this codswallop I will only utter a cackle of pleasure when cocky, overpaid, western teams get trashed by their much harder working opponents from the so-called third world. Nigeria has just thrashed Spain - way it's shaping up, perhaps it could be a more interesting World Cup than I thought.
At least one can one can say with honour that the sun never sets on the British sense of irrelevance. We're not interested in the collapse of Far Eastern markets, nor do we care that India and Pakistan are poised to launch world war three. Seismologists in London claim they were able to detect the blasts shortly after they took place on the other side of the planet - a story that failed to make even the inner pages of some of the UK's tabloids!
Oh no, the only other big scoop to grip the UK - a nation renowned for its sense of proportion - is that the Spice Girls are splitting up. Ginger Spice has been scared off by Scary Spice, AKA Mel B, and now the Spice Girls are no more. Shame! Now I know the Spiceys couldn't sing for a toffee, but they used to look quite sexy really.
In fact, being a bit of a Sun-reading old goose, on the sly, I used to sleep-swim around my pond at night, dreaming of sticking my beak into Baby Spice's well-rounded bosom - followed by all the spice girls' wobbly bits at once in a jacuzzi full of banana flavoured custard! But that's another story - I don't want to start sounding like a professional footballer.
Fortunately the sun never sets on the British sense of irreverence either - praise be to whoever will cut us the best deal!
One of my pond-mates has helpfully suggested that former UK Premier, Margaret Thatcher should step in as the new fifth Spice Girl - Old Spice. I don't reckon the other Spice Girls would accept this unexpected boost for Girl Power because they wouldn't look quite as sexy as Maggie does in her new shiny lycra hotpants with matching crop-top and handbag. They'd feel threatened by her, particularly once Maggie has her navel pierced. It's a girl thing apparently!
Meanwhile, an ensemble resembling what's left of the Spiceys has been squawking on the BBC's tired old TV show Top of the Pops a sad little song entitled, “How does it feel to be on top of the world?” It forms part of a hastily cobbled together pop outfit called England Forever. So that's us buggered, even if we could play football at international level!
Ah well, I'm off to stomp around my pond in disgust - particularly on reading last month's TimeLine, where I discovered that movie actor Michael Douglas has ditched his political aspirations because of his sex-and-drugs past. Funny, this hasn't cramped Clinton's style one bit! Of course, Slick Willy never inhaled...
Don't believe a word of it!