By Timmy the Intern
Blow the whistle, time to go and wave St. George’s flag.
A drink, a dance, we’re off to France. Better pack a bag.
A lager or two, some tequila too, a whiskey – make it double.
Nah, Gendarme, nah, mate. I’m sure we’ll be no trouble.
The Three Lions roar, ball on the floor, played around with pace.
A Wilshere pass opens the door for Rooney, he’s in space!
He’s not doing much good up there, how can he even breathe?
Oh well, Wayne, regards to Tim Peake. Sorry you had to leave.
Who’s that taking a long range shot? How hard you have to kick it!?
My word! It’s headed out the ground. He thinks he’s playing cricket.
He’s not got much eye for goal, but I’m sure Vardy’ll lend ya some,
but please stop taking those pot shots mister Jordan Henderson.
Oh my word! We’re through, thank God, made it to the quarters.
We’re gonna win, this is the tale we tell our sons and daughters.
Thank God for the seeding system, Turkey versus us.
2-1 win, not a problem, there’s no need to fuss.
Now it’s time for semis, oh it’s definitely our year.
The Three Lions playing fluid – with confidence, without fear.
Up against old Portugal, we’ve got a score to settle.
0-0 after extra time. Oh shit, penalties. A test of mettle.
This is definitely it, this must surely be our destiny.
My eyes obscured by a cushion, the couch hides the rest of me.
The anxiety gives lucidity. A shame, I no longer feel pissed.
Oh fuck it’s Jordan Henderson…
…He sets the ball…
…He steps up…
…He takes the shot…
…I knew it. Twat! He’s missed!
Bugger, balls and titty cunts and pissing sodding arse,
why is England’s only glory buried in the past?
Shitty wanking dick and fuck and piss off, we’re bereft.
Fuck the players, fuck the linesman and fuck the fucking ref.