Me Brit Obsession

Ever since I could call me self a lad it’s been a blighty existence. Was born polarised with me undying hate for the blimey Brits. Hated their guts and would loved to have taken each of them down one of those dirty Southall alleys and kicked some white cockney yellow. The mention of the British would wind me up like an old Geordie seeing his pet Newcastle getting the Queen’s thrashing by some lowly unheralded Conference boys. I couldn’t swallow the fact that those sorry bobs were allowed to pillage our country like some village pub. In this constant hatred for these hapless half wits I suddenly discovered a messiah sent straight from Edinburgh royalty. They pranced in shining red and no they were not that sodding Rudolph the old gaffe. These were pure blooded, steeped in Victorian legend warriors. I am talking about those lads from Manchester (not actually Manchester but from a place I call, The Temple), Manchester United.

I lost me Indian citizenship and became a tax paying Mancunian. These were no roadside, showboating, all shirt no trousers football club (Clearly referring to Arsenal). These were a bunch of guys brought together by the Queen and the Earl to pump some hope back in these bunch of no use ragamuffins who had an entire 20 miles to call their own. The Brits have taken part in more wars then they have knickers which has left them in a very disillusioned and shoddy little corner of our world. Yet Margaret Thatcher’s ghost will let you know that they have the greatest football league in the world. I aint one to disagree with that all conquering declaration or it will be ‘off with me head’. The Bar n Clay Premiership is the tight lipped white man’s best contribution to the world (considering it has more of the world than the Brits in it) and its greatest kid has surely been the Red Devils. When they walk onto that patch of green called Old Trafford, the ‘Daily Mail’ reports that George Bush actually grows some ****s, Marks and Spencers shuts down, the dimwits at the Queen’s gates actually feel something in their pits, a small village called Wortherstirtescheshire suddenly wakes up from its slumber, some men in blue across in Manchester suddenly realise all their wives are sleeping in the barn with the wrong horse, some dodgy Merseyside goons wake up to realise that they may not ‘walk alone’ but they surely’ sleep alone’ and finally in a small French village called ‘The Emirates’, an Arse (Wenger) promises to emulate the Red Devils next year.

And then as the whole nation holds their yellow bellies, eleven men begin to restore some dignity into what is an empire that has had its ‘sun set over it’. They glide like warriors would have in the days when being a King or Queen actually mattered in that island surrounded by bolshie. Young kids sit glued to their telly with Sky TV bringing patriotism into a country which still doesn’t know if its America’s b***h or c**t, it teaches kids to aspire to be something better or atleast teach that obese bloke to beat the Asian kid, who he racially abuses, in class, and not in the playground. They try to inspire a nation to look beyond WAGs, the Tories and a forgotten history to a new future where a low ass, dole collecting Humphrey Dickinson can sit up and be proud.

So stop regaling in those Russian roubles, Arabic dhirams and those Yankee dushbag owners. Stop talking about those 500 million pound signings and 600 million pounds debt. Stop calling it the best league and then recalling those statements the moment no English team makes it to the semis of the Champions League (Fulham are in the Europa league final and a mighty cheers for that), just sit back and hold that mug of beer (atleast you farts got that right) and tune into a Man Utd game, it may not always be pretty but it will sure make you want to get out there and do something worthwhile. Make your Queen proud before one of those nitwit sons or grandsons get the crown, coz then you will have nothing left to be proud about. And yeah Gordon, stop getting your pants Brown.

PS – Sincere respect to Jeremy Clarkson, James May, Richard Hammond, The Beatles, Guy Ritchie, Kiera Knightley, Aston Martin and Jaguar. Fiji is a part of the commonwealth still, I think. You guys may as well migrate there, save some face I say.