World Cup Willie must be turning in his grave
By Richard LittlejohnLast updated at 11:09 PM on 2nd December 2010
For the record, I’d love to have seen it staged here, if only for old time’s sake. Somewhere in the attic, I’ve still got a model of World Cup Willie and the programme from the 1966 final at Wembley.
At its best, football remains the most exhilarating sporting spectacle on Earth. Sadly, however, the international game has long since been overtaken by club competition.
My loyalties lie, for better or worse, with Tottenham Hotspur. I wouldn’t cross the North Circular Road to watch England, especially after the over-hyped, lacklustre surrender in South Africa.
In the event, the best efforts of our ‘Three Lions’ — Prince William, David Cameron and David Beckham — proved futile.
The presence in Switzerland of this A-list triumvirate was the final, depressing fusion of royalty, politics and celebrity. Where was Cheryl Cole when we needed her?
Frankly, the sight of the future King proclaiming to the watching world that football is his ‘passion’ was stomach-churning. He came across like a needy contestant on Masterchef, or one of those pathetic individuals ‘living the dream’ on reality TV.
Was it really necessary for the heir to the throne to have to prostrate himself over breakfast before an 82-year-old Paraguayan crook?
This high-profile, injury-time intervention was always doomed to end in tears. The decision on the venues for the 2018 and 2022 World Cups was stitched up months ago. England was destined to lose out, as surely as if it went to penalties. Away goals were never going to rescue the bid.
FIFA’s mandarins are as bent as a nine-rouble note, puffed up with their own importance. How that unreconstructed old rogue Sepp Blatter revelled in his self-appointed role as centre of the Universe this week.
You can only admire the chutzpah with which he picked Russia out of the envelope, with all the finesse of an addled old brass peeling off her grubby, moth-eaten basque at a flea-ridden burlesque.
Managing to keep a straight face and pretend the identity of the winner was a complete surprise to him should qualify Blatter for an Oscar nomination.
England’s frenetic, last-minute lobbying was as desperate as it was demeaning. Call Me Dave did himself no favours pleading with the delegates to award England the tournament.
The Prime Minister was attempting to emulate Tony Blair’s success in winning the 2012 Olympics, but he should have stayed at home. England’s bid may well have been outstanding and pac ked with smiley, multi-culti faces and sentimental garbage about ‘legacy’ and saving underprivileged Mancunians from gang culture.
But the politics of world football were always against it. Aligning himself with inevitable, humiliating failure has made Dave look like a loser. He should have had the nous to steer well clear.
Why do you think Vladimir Putin stayed away? It wasn’t just about maintaining the dignity of his office. He knew it was in the bag for Russia.
It’s a shame Dave doesn’t put as much effort into fighting our corner in Europe as he did in attempting to win the 2018 World Cup.
The political capital invested in this bid is a sad reflection of Britain’s true influence in the world. Presentation may count for everything in our domestic affairs, but out there in the wider world they only respect raw power. One way or another, the Russians bought the World Cup as ruthlessly as Roman Abramovich bought Chelsea.
In Britain, we seem unable to distinguish between realpolitik and The X Factor.
The two Daves and Prince William were even rigged out with those ridiculous stage microphones, stuck to their cheeks like a cross between a football referee and Lady Gaga.
Almost as depressing as the failure to win the right to host the World Cup were the instant recriminations. Please, spare us the post-match analysis.
We don’t need Boris Johnson declaring himself ‘gutted’ — particularly with his London fiefdom up to its armpits in brass monkeys. We can live without Prince William telling us he’s sick as a parrot.
We don’t need a public inquiry into what went wrong. We lost. Grow up. Get over it.
There’s always 2026. Sixty years of hurt and all that. World Cup Willie must be turning in his grave.
While the rest of the world was going to hell in a handcart, I comforted myself that we’d always have Essex.
The inner cities might be infested with Guardianistas, but God’s Own County would remain immune to the madness consuming the country.
Even though I’ve been living in exile in North London for many years, Essex remains my -spiritual home.
So it saddens me to report that the last outpost of sanity has fallen to elf’n’safety.
For the past 25 years, the Chamber of Trade has put up a Christmas tree in the same spot in the centre of the village of Coggeshall.
This year, they were told that they would have to fill in a 32-page risk assessment before ¬permission could be granted.
Essex County Council demanded a map of its position, a diagram showing the exact siting of fairy lights on the tree and full details of any proposed road closures or diversions.
The highways department also insisted on a letter being sent to all residents likely to be affected, plus a certificate of public liability insurance.
Presumably these are the same imbeciles who banned the lollipop man outside my old infants school, St Mary’s in Shenfield, from standing in the middle of the road.
After the local council spent £30,000 on ‘improvements’ and traffic cameras, it was decided that it was ‘unsafe’ for Ron Warwick to stand in the road — just in case he didn’t have enough time to get back to the pavement before the lights changed.
Shenfield falls within the borough of Brentwood, the parliamentary seat of the Communities Secretary Eric Pickles, who is supposed to be responsible for local authorities.
Sort it out, Eric, before Essex Man and Essex Girl rise up and march on Parliament.
Otherwise you might find yourself sitting on a Christmas tree.
A pinch of salt
North Lincolnshire is the latest local authority to tour chip shops, confiscating salt shakers with more than five holes.
Regular readers may remember that I brought you news of a similar initiative in Gateshead as part of a healthy eating drive.
I assumed then that this was an isolated piece of lunacy. Yet again, I should have known better. You’d think they might have something more worthwhile to do.
Like salting the roads.
Can someone please explain how ‘saving’ 160,000 public sector jobs is ‘good news’ — especially at a time when it is reported that 1,100 small businesses are going bust every day because of the recession?
Milking the motorist
When they were in Opposition, the Tories said there was no need to cut the drink-driving limit.Now, in government, they have accepted the recommendation of a committee of MPs which wants to reduce it to zero — even though it would do nothing to deter the hard core who would still drive drunk even if the limit was half a pint of milk.
Then again, this is the same government which declared the war on the motorist was over, while presiding over a massive rise in parking fines.
- In the Commons yesterday, Transport Secretary Philip Hammond referred to the heavy snow as a ‘weather event’ When did you ever hear of anyone popping outside to build a weather event man?
A scond lagwidge
An email sent to a parent from a teacher at a college in Spalding, Lincs, contained 14 spelling and grammatical errors —including ‘roal modal’ and ‘attenance’.Some of our schools are already mini Towers of Babel. What chance have children got when even their teachers seem to speak English as a second language?
Esther Rantzen claims, bizarrely, that when she was campaigning in Luton at the last election, she was told that couples who grow pampas grass were likely to be ‘swingers’.
Perhaps that also explains why some people dump old mattresses in their front garden.
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