‘It’s a Goal.’

In 1879 the British Empire met her darkest hour. The invasion of Zululand was in chaos after the Islandwhana debacle. Quickly the meagre 140 odd Redcoats stationed at the tiny outpost of Rorke’s Drift were in danger from the thousands of Zulu defenders. Things were looking grim.

Thankfully though Petr Chech’s brave outstretched hand stopped the spears from hitting poor old Michael Caine and that bloke from Minder.

John Terry was mad for it incidentally. He wasn’t even aware there was a legitimate battle happening until after he’d murdered 22 Zulus.

And this will be the lasting legacy of UEFA Euro 2012.

The football has not been especially special yet the commentary has been gold. It’s better than anything Alan Partridge could conjur up.

Why must everything now be compared to Chelsea versus Barcelona now? You half expect to see John Wayne playing Frank Lampard in a Hollywood Epic.

When England met Ukraine, Wayne Rooney played his first match for 5 weeks. Surely 5 weeks is nothing for a professional footballer who’s very job is to play football.

And yet Clive Tydlesly commended Wayne for ‘soldiering on’. This was after an hour of play. It’s not as if Wayne has one leg.

There’s been plenty to ponder from England’s performances however too.

So far Roy has them set out like a Table Football side; solid banks of four that move side-to-side but never forward. Won’t somebody free Scottie Parker?

And doesn’t Scottie Parker resemble Kenneth Williams whilst we’re at it? (‘at it’ as in continuing the Scott Parker thoughts. Not at it at it. Ooh Matron.)

Steven Gerrard meanwhile has been playing almost like the man who pretends to run by simply puffing his cheeks and swinging his arms as he crosses the road and a car is slowly coming from a safe distance.

Finally is there a more unpleasant site than Andy Carroll’s Unravelled Hair?

By far the worst thing of the EUROs (so far) though was the crazy scheduling that allowed the first England game to start at 5.15.

This led to a huge Likely Lads style struggle to not find out the score on the way home.

I left work early at 4 but still had to record the Football.

I rang Home and asked my Brother to leave the Telly on before he left and to leave it on BBC1 so that I wouldn’t see the score if it was left on ITV. I’ve done this one before you see.

I managed to get the Train at 10 to 5, turned my Phone off in case some Moron text me the score, turned my Ipod up to an uncomfortable volume, and kept my head down.

And then some kid with a fancy phone gets on at Blackheath (where else?). He’s only watching the game on his fancy phone.

People start to realise and they nudge their mate sitting next to them and go ‘Oi… See him? Yeah. One with the fancy phone. He’s watching the game on his fancy phone.’ (at least I assume they do – I can’t hear as my Ipod is at an uncomfortable volume).

They go and ask the boy with the fancy phone what the score is (probably) and exchange smiles. What does this mean? Has someone scored? Has someone done a particularly good bit of racism perhaps?

I don’t know as the Train pulls in to Bexleyheath and I jump off (not literally) and quickly exit the station (literally).

I walk home, get out of earshot of everyone else. I know not to look in the House with the nice car down Fairlawn Avenue because they have no net curtains and a big Plasma TV on the wall.

I keep walking, head down.

I get home, put the Game on – fast forward through Jamie Carragher (he makes more sense that way). I smile childishly as it kicks off – it’s so hard to avoid the score in the 21st century but I’ve done it!

And then I fell asleep and only woke up when the Commentator shouted, quite loudly, ‘LESCOTTTT!’

Football. Bloody Hell.

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