Fair play to Frank Lampard who proved his class by becoming only the third England player to score in matches against Ireland since 1985. Seven Irish players have now scored in Ireland-England matches in that time - Ray Houghton, Kevin Sheedy, Tony Cascarino, Steve Staunton, Niall Quinn, David Kelly and Shane Long which shows the gap in class between the teams as a whole over the last three decades.
I only saw the first half due to my own sporting commitments, but Keane is finished at this level surely? He was nonexistent for the 45 mins I saw and I presume it didn’t get any better? We are surely more penetrating with Long -Cox?
Nice pun and that but Anthony Stokes should be in the squad.
[quote=“Bandage, post: 779185, member: 9”]Good, battling display by Ireland. New contract for Mr Trapattoni please. I thought Coleman, McCarthy and Long were superb and Forde was excellent too, particularly with the second half saves from Oxlade-Chamberlain and Walcott.
Disagree strongly with any O’Shea and Whelan criticism. O’Shea defended very well, I felt, and Whelan got through a lot of good work. St Ledger displayed a lack of composure for the goal - it was rash/sloppy but he was good otherwise. Would be looking at Brady and other options instead of the ineffective McGeady for a wing position.
Our goal was one of real beauty. Great reception for our players by the Irish support at the end too. Overall, Coleman and McCarthy were the main positives - you could see McCarthy barking out instructions and showing lots of authority so Trap will be happy.[/quote]
I’d pretty much go along with that apart from Whelan who was atrocious, he can’t complete a 5 yard pass, he was constantly putting his teammates under pressure with sloppy passing to the wrong foot, or too short, Walters was getting pissed off with it. Overall, not a bad friendly match. England were not very good, but what did we expect. The main thing is that Ireland looked composed and mostly assured. McCarthy very good, Coleman, Forde and Long were outstanding. Coleman in particular in getting forward and posing more of a threat than most of the midfield and he made some crucial interventions at the back. The not very good english defence didn’t know what to do with Long who ran his bollocks off. The goal was probably the best I’ve seen Ireland score for years.
I just don’t see what McGeady adds. Just because he can do the odd step over and takes decent corners doesn’t mean he’s a creative player, he was wasteful as usual and he puts too much pressure on the full back. He’s had enough chances to demonstrate he can be our creative outlet. I’d agree that Robbie shouldn’t have started and would be more of an asset off the bench. O’Shea did well in fairness to him.
England can’t pass effectively and their finishing is woeful. Lampard was good and we should have cleared the cross for the goal (or Sturridge should never have been allowed to get the ball in).
So it was a good exercise and will give a lot of the squad confidence. I know the Spain game is a friendly, but it will be important for the defence in particular to build on this game and show they can compete with sides who can pass quickly and open up teams. I thought we held our structure very well tonight, apart from a few dodgy moments towards the end when we started defending very deep, which was unnecessary with subs coming off the bench.
28 years 
The Faroes should be a goal fest.
isnt Gola the ultimate hypocrite booing the English tonight?
Irish fans were embarrassing tonight.
4 songs repeated ad nauseum and any change to the song list was treated with disdain.
We All Dream Of A Team Of Gary Breens…FUCK OFF
Olé Olé Olé…FUCK OFF
A cringeworthy 90+ minutes
Farmer, what’s the craic with the 4 Leitrim Bhoys ?
What were the 4 songs, thedancingbaby?
The Fields…Ole Ole Ole…Stand Up and You’ll Never Beat The Irish? Nothing else thrown in there?
England have some hopeless players though - Johnson, Cahill, Jagielka, Rooney, Defoe and so on.
Shame so many of our players play in their league. It was notable that the best players on the pitch (Forde, Coleman, McCarthy and Long) developed their games in Ireland and Scotland and didn’t move to England as kids and pick up bad footballing habits where their technique would have been stunted.
Just watched the second half back this morning. McCarthy was fantastic, as was Mcgeady and Coleman. Force also looked assured and overall I’ll be disappointed if we don’t qualify for Brasil.
[quote=“Bandage, post: 779230, member: 9”]What were the 4 songs, thedancingbaby?
The Fields…Ole Ole Ole…Stand Up and You’ll Never Beat The Irish? Nothing else thrown in there?
England have some hopeless players though - Johnson, Cahill, Jagielka, Rooney, Defoe and so on.
Shame so many of our players play in their league. It was notable that the best players on the pitch (Forde, Coleman, McCarthy and Long) developed their games in Ireland and Scotland and didn’t move to England as kids and pick up bad footballing habits where their technique would have been stunted.[/quote]
You forgot to mention Baines, but the rest I agree with wholeheartedly.
While O’Shea did alright last night, albeit he was never really tested he is just far too passive at centre back. Lads on here used to make the point that our tactics always seemed to be give it to the full backs and let them hoof it, but we don’t really do it all that often unless O’Shea is at right back and in which case he seems to just lump every ball aimlessly up the field even if there is a 10 yard ball on inside him. Wilson coming back in at left back should be an improvement to the defence as well.
Bandage I thought Whelan did some good things last night, screened well and as always tried hard but he is just too one paced and poor on the ball, I think we would improve if we had a more dynamic player beside McCarthy.
I still think Robbie is worth starting and getting 60 minutes out of, while he was on the periphery last night any time he got on the ball he held it up well and was assured on it. I would rather someone like Cox coming off the bench and putting himself about with 30 minutes to go as he has been effective at this or houlihan if we want another body in midfield and a bit of compusure on the ball
Seamus merely carried on the long tradition of brilliant performances by our Evertonians V England -
1949 - Peter Farrell, Goodison Park
1990 - Kevin Sheedy, Stadio Sant’ Elia, Cagliari
2013 - Seamus Coleman, Wembley Stadium
The Irish Peoples Club:clap:
Match report from When Saturday Comes
EMINENT ENGLAND HURL ABYSMAL IRISH LIKE DWARVES INTO A BOG 1-1
There is a great deal of balderdash spoken about the Irish, a nation of stinted, skirling mud-dwellers, whose closest biological relation, studies have shown, is not other human beings, but turf. It is said that they are exceedingly stupid. To divert briefly into the humorous, one recalls the joke about the Englishman, Irishman and Scotchman who shared a railway carriage. As the locomotive drew away from the platform, they were joined by a clergyman who asked them if this was the train to Devon. The Englishman, who was a little hard of hearing, said “the way to Heaven? I should have thought, sir, that that is a question we should be putting to you!” The Scotchman said, “I’d share ma’ whisky with you but I’m too bloody mean,” and headbutted the man of the cloth. Finally, the Irishman writhed around on the carriage floor, drooling, incapable of sentience and basic motor skills.
Although aspects of the above are clearly absurd – what on earth would an Englishman be doing in a carriage with an Irishman and a Scotchman? - we laugh at such jokes because they contain a large element of truth. However, the whole truth about the Irish is that they are both exceedingly stupid and deviously cunning. That one completely contradicts the other is of no matter to these unscrupulous people who in any case, being Kerrymen and so forth, have no idea what a “contradiction” is.
Some facts about our opponents on the field of play, upon which England, of course, had their work cut out, as the Irish, green of face as well as shirt, blend invisibly into the background, making it appear as if England are playing no kind of opposition at all.
OWING to their ingrained obtusenesss and indifference to literacy, Irish words as written bear no relationship to how they are pronounced. “Sinn Fein” is pronounced as “Seinfeld”, while “Taoiseach” is, in reality, pronounced as “Spotted dick”.
ASSOCIATION football is not the most popular sport in Eire. More preferred pastimes include hurling, heaving, headstick, shintlock, Gaelic rules field draining, hogtrotting, stonebreeding and pony rendering.
VISITING an Irish village, and stopping at an inn for a beverage, you will be surprised at how deserted the place is. “What?”, you might chortle to yourself. “Have the damned fools run out of potatoes yet again?” However, an Irishman will soon appear – he will be wearing a felt Guinness hat and running at great speed, chased by a wild horse down the main street and shouting “Oi’m not bitter!”
ALTHOUGH very active in the lower limbs, the Irish are reluctant to have their arms leave their sides at any time. This has not only made for some exceptionally poor goalkeeping performances in past World Cup tournaments but also has had a deleterious educational effect, with Irish pupils utterly unwilling to raise their hands to answer questions in class. “Now, children, who can give me the names of twelve 19th century British Prime Ministers. Anyone? Fergus? Seamus? No one?”
CORPORATION tax in Eire is absurdly high. Set up shop in the country with some enterprising little concern – ARMS “R” US, perhaps, or OMNIMEGACORP (We Sell Everything – There Is No Alternative) and some impertinent little fellow in a green bowler hat is liable to send you an annual tax bill for anything up to five British shillings, or three sacks of potatoes, the local currency equivalent.
IF you stand on the rooftop of your house in Ireland, you can see across three counties. This is certainly true of myself and my own, Irish property, loath as I naturally am to visit it. For “three counties”, read “my back garden”.
There are redeeming features in the Irish, of course. Their church instils in their children the sort of fear of authority, benevolent or otherwise, which I have always striven to instil in my manservant Seppings. Moreover, while some criticised the Irish embassy in Bonn for sending a message of condolence to Germany following the death of Adolf Hitler, I, for one, considered it a sportsmanlike gesture to a worthy, fallen adversary which our own Mr Churchill would have done well to emulate.
Such were our benighted foes this evening, their child-frightening faces to a man fashioned by some pagan God more accustomed to making pewter jugs. The national anthems were at once the measure of the disparity between the nations far wider than any channel. Our own was yodelled with such lusty sincerity it is no wonder some of our players showed early signs of total exhaustion having rendered it. The Irish shambles, meanwhile, insufficiently booed, with its risible pretensions of nationhood commenced like some ramshackle brass band unaccustomed to playing instruments while standing on two legs, setting out to emulate the German national anthem but losing their way and wandering into the sea. There were a few chants of “No surrender to the IRA”, thankfully, for surrender to them we shall not. Nor Socialists like Michael Foot and Barbara Castle, or the Boers or the Prussians, for that matter.
The game began at a terrific pelt, the referee keeping a close eye on the Irish players lest they steal any of the Wembley turf, the English cocks thrusting forward in numbers. Every man jack in a white shirt gave 110% - 100% for club, 10% for country but this was no night to quibble about statistics. The Irish players looked on Wayne Rooney with envy. He physically embodied all that they were missing, particularly back in the 19th century during the Famine. Michael Carrick was barely noticeable and did nothing of any use whatsoever but that is often the sign of a great player, certainly an English one. Glenn Johnson was a brick in defence, and took to his duties like a brick to water. Rumours that Jermain Defoe was playing doubtless caused panic among the Irish defence. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain showed, time and again that there is no player more almost useful than he.
The Irish, meanwhile, capered randomly about the pitch like leprechauns in frantic search of an enchanted fiddle they had lost, in fear of a spanking from the Chief Gnome and being sent to bed without any peat potage. Amusingly, the ball bounced off the head of their forward, one Shane Long and into the net but this was quite clearly so contrary to his expectations it could not be counted as a goal. The insolent troglodyte, however, failed to apologise for his error to the England goalkeeper. Happily, Frank Lampard restored parity and sanity from close range, sending a clear message to Dublin that their brief time as a rogue nation was up; time to return to the commonwealth kennels, or face certain consequences of which more later.
Come the second half and England were bolstered by the presence of Leyton Buzzard at left back, who resembled little so much as a member of the English “mod” group the Leighton Baines – and Phil Jones, showing every sign of becoming the greatest player earth has ever known. Sure enough, he rampaged up and down the pitch like a farmhand chasing a pig through a turnip field that has made off with his sandwich, oinking triumphantly. And so, with England pranging the Irish defence like fellows of one of the more prestigious Oxford clubs pinging coins at a little fellow in green braces dancing a jig and blowing on a tin whistle for pennies, the too-merciful referee called a halt to the Gaelic torment. This was the cue for Irish players and fans alike to assemble at the nearest clearing depot for immediate deportation, ferried back by a fleet of barges.
There remains just one further order of business. Since the Irish have dared, once again to pit themselves against the realm and yet loiter parasitically on the doorstep of the British Isles, the time has come for them to truly be cut loose. I propose special forces, trained in the latest “fracking’ techniques, sent out to drill away at the foundations of Southern Ireland, in order to detach it from the earth’s core and free-float to Europe, where it apparently feels so much more at home. I envisage them drifting up and around the Iberian peninsula as if on a giant raft, shouting forlornly, “Pegs! Tarmac! Old Eurovision Song Contest songs!” to no avail. Such was the folly of 1922…
I hope the players stay protected from the Portmarnock locals who, once again, have been rioting in the area all afternoon.
I think it’s the creche workers from Malahide who have been causing the trouble.
[quote=“Rocko, post: 779482, member: 1”]Match report from When Saturday Comes
EMINENT ENGLAND HURL ABYSMAL IRISH LIKE DWARVES INTO A BOG 1-1
There is a great deal of balderdash spoken about the Irish, a nation of stinted, skirling mud-dwellers, whose closest biological relation, studies have shown, is not other human beings, but turf. It is said that they are exceedingly stupid. To divert briefly into the humorous, one recalls the joke about the Englishman, Irishman and Scotchman who shared a railway carriage. As the locomotive drew away from the platform, they were joined by a clergyman who asked them if this was the train to Devon. The Englishman, who was a little hard of hearing, said “the way to Heaven? I should have thought, sir, that that is a question we should be putting to you!” The Scotchman said, “I’d share ma’ whisky with you but I’m too bloody mean,” and headbutted the man of the cloth. Finally, the Irishman writhed around on the carriage floor, drooling, incapable of sentience and basic motor skills.
Although aspects of the above are clearly absurd – what on earth would an Englishman be doing in a carriage with an Irishman and a Scotchman? - we laugh at such jokes because they contain a large element of truth. However, the whole truth about the Irish is that they are both exceedingly stupid and deviously cunning. That one completely contradicts the other is of no matter to these unscrupulous people who in any case, being Kerrymen and so forth, have no idea what a “contradiction” is.
Some facts about our opponents on the field of play, upon which England, of course, had their work cut out, as the Irish, green of face as well as shirt, blend invisibly into the background, making it appear as if England are playing no kind of opposition at all.
OWING to their ingrained obtusenesss and indifference to literacy, Irish words as written bear no relationship to how they are pronounced. “Sinn Fein” is pronounced as “Seinfeld”, while “Taoiseach” is, in reality, pronounced as “Spotted dick”.
ASSOCIATION football is not the most popular sport in Eire. More preferred pastimes include hurling, heaving, headstick, shintlock, Gaelic rules field draining, hogtrotting, stonebreeding and pony rendering.
VISITING an Irish village, and stopping at an inn for a beverage, you will be surprised at how deserted the place is. “What?”, you might chortle to yourself. “Have the damned fools run out of potatoes yet again?” However, an Irishman will soon appear – he will be wearing a felt Guinness hat and running at great speed, chased by a wild horse down the main street and shouting “Oi’m not bitter!”
ALTHOUGH very active in the lower limbs, the Irish are reluctant to have their arms leave their sides at any time. This has not only made for some exceptionally poor goalkeeping performances in past World Cup tournaments but also has had a deleterious educational effect, with Irish pupils utterly unwilling to raise their hands to answer questions in class. “Now, children, who can give me the names of twelve 19th century British Prime Ministers. Anyone? Fergus? Seamus? No one?”
CORPORATION tax in Eire is absurdly high. Set up shop in the country with some enterprising little concern – ARMS “R” US, perhaps, or OMNIMEGACORP (We Sell Everything – There Is No Alternative) and some impertinent little fellow in a green bowler hat is liable to send you an annual tax bill for anything up to five British shillings, or three sacks of potatoes, the local currency equivalent.
IF you stand on the rooftop of your house in Ireland, you can see across three counties. This is certainly true of myself and my own, Irish property, loath as I naturally am to visit it. For “three counties”, read “my back garden”.
There are redeeming features in the Irish, of course. Their church instils in their children the sort of fear of authority, benevolent or otherwise, which I have always striven to instil in my manservant Seppings. Moreover, while some criticised the Irish embassy in Bonn for sending a message of condolence to Germany following the death of Adolf Hitler, I, for one, considered it a sportsmanlike gesture to a worthy, fallen adversary which our own Mr Churchill would have done well to emulate.
Such were our benighted foes this evening, their child-frightening faces to a man fashioned by some pagan God more accustomed to making pewter jugs. The national anthems were at once the measure of the disparity between the nations far wider than any channel. Our own was yodelled with such lusty sincerity it is no wonder some of our players showed early signs of total exhaustion having rendered it. The Irish shambles, meanwhile, insufficiently booed, with its risible pretensions of nationhood commenced like some ramshackle brass band unaccustomed to playing instruments while standing on two legs, setting out to emulate the German national anthem but losing their way and wandering into the sea. There were a few chants of “No surrender to the IRA”, thankfully, for surrender to them we shall not. Nor Socialists like Michael Foot and Barbara Castle, or the Boers or the Prussians, for that matter.
The game began at a terrific pelt, the referee keeping a close eye on the Irish players lest they steal any of the Wembley turf, the English cocks thrusting forward in numbers. Every man jack in a white shirt gave 110% - 100% for club, 10% for country but this was no night to quibble about statistics. The Irish players looked on Wayne Rooney with envy. He physically embodied all that they were missing, particularly back in the 19th century during the Famine. Michael Carrick was barely noticeable and did nothing of any use whatsoever but that is often the sign of a great player, certainly an English one. Glenn Johnson was a brick in defence, and took to his duties like a brick to water. Rumours that Jermain Defoe was playing doubtless caused panic among the Irish defence. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain showed, time and again that there is no player more almost useful than he.
The Irish, meanwhile, capered randomly about the pitch like leprechauns in frantic search of an enchanted fiddle they had lost, in fear of a spanking from the Chief Gnome and being sent to bed without any peat potage. Amusingly, the ball bounced off the head of their forward, one Shane Long and into the net but this was quite clearly so contrary to his expectations it could not be counted as a goal. The insolent troglodyte, however, failed to apologise for his error to the England goalkeeper. Happily, Frank Lampard restored parity and sanity from close range, sending a clear message to Dublin that their brief time as a rogue nation was up; time to return to the commonwealth kennels, or face certain consequences of which more later.
Come the second half and England were bolstered by the presence of Leyton Buzzard at left back, who resembled little so much as a member of the English “mod” group the Leighton Baines – and Phil Jones, showing every sign of becoming the greatest player earth has ever known. Sure enough, he rampaged up and down the pitch like a farmhand chasing a pig through a turnip field that has made off with his sandwich, oinking triumphantly. And so, with England pranging the Irish defence like fellows of one of the more prestigious Oxford clubs pinging coins at a little fellow in green braces dancing a jig and blowing on a tin whistle for pennies, the too-merciful referee called a halt to the Gaelic torment. This was the cue for Irish players and fans alike to assemble at the nearest clearing depot for immediate deportation, ferried back by a fleet of barges.
There remains just one further order of business. Since the Irish have dared, once again to pit themselves against the realm and yet loiter parasitically on the doorstep of the British Isles, the time has come for them to truly be cut loose. I propose special forces, trained in the latest “fracking’ techniques, sent out to drill away at the foundations of Southern Ireland, in order to detach it from the earth’s core and free-float to Europe, where it apparently feels so much more at home. I envisage them drifting up and around the Iberian peninsula as if on a giant raft, shouting forlornly, “Pegs! Tarmac! Old Eurovision Song Contest songs!” to no avail. Such was the folly of 1922…[/quote]
Did Manuel Zeleya pen that?
[quote=“Rocko, post: 779482, member: 1”]Match report from When Saturday Comes
EMINENT ENGLAND HURL ABYSMAL IRISH LIKE DWARVES INTO A BOG 1-1
There is a great deal of balderdash spoken about the Irish, a nation of stinted, skirling mud-dwellers, whose closest biological relation, studies have shown, is not other human beings, but turf. It is said that they are exceedingly stupid. To divert briefly into the humorous, one recalls the joke about the Englishman, Irishman and Scotchman who shared a railway carriage. As the locomotive drew away from the platform, they were joined by a clergyman who asked them if this was the train to Devon. The Englishman, who was a little hard of hearing, said “the way to Heaven? I should have thought, sir, that that is a question we should be putting to you!” The Scotchman said, “I’d share ma’ whisky with you but I’m too bloody mean,” and headbutted the man of the cloth. Finally, the Irishman writhed around on the carriage floor, drooling, incapable of sentience and basic motor skills.
Although aspects of the above are clearly absurd – what on earth would an Englishman be doing in a carriage with an Irishman and a Scotchman? - we laugh at such jokes because they contain a large element of truth. However, the whole truth about the Irish is that they are both exceedingly stupid and deviously cunning. That one completely contradicts the other is of no matter to these unscrupulous people who in any case, being Kerrymen and so forth, have no idea what a “contradiction” is.
Some facts about our opponents on the field of play, upon which England, of course, had their work cut out, as the Irish, green of face as well as shirt, blend invisibly into the background, making it appear as if England are playing no kind of opposition at all.
OWING to their ingrained obtusenesss and indifference to literacy, Irish words as written bear no relationship to how they are pronounced. “Sinn Fein” is pronounced as “Seinfeld”, while “Taoiseach” is, in reality, pronounced as “Spotted dick”.
ASSOCIATION football is not the most popular sport in Eire. More preferred pastimes include hurling, heaving, headstick, shintlock, Gaelic rules field draining, hogtrotting, stonebreeding and pony rendering.
VISITING an Irish village, and stopping at an inn for a beverage, you will be surprised at how deserted the place is. “What?”, you might chortle to yourself. “Have the damned fools run out of potatoes yet again?” However, an Irishman will soon appear – he will be wearing a felt Guinness hat and running at great speed, chased by a wild horse down the main street and shouting “Oi’m not bitter!”
ALTHOUGH very active in the lower limbs, the Irish are reluctant to have their arms leave their sides at any time. This has not only made for some exceptionally poor goalkeeping performances in past World Cup tournaments but also has had a deleterious educational effect, with Irish pupils utterly unwilling to raise their hands to answer questions in class. “Now, children, who can give me the names of twelve 19th century British Prime Ministers. Anyone? Fergus? Seamus? No one?”
CORPORATION tax in Eire is absurdly high. Set up shop in the country with some enterprising little concern – ARMS “R” US, perhaps, or OMNIMEGACORP (We Sell Everything – There Is No Alternative) and some impertinent little fellow in a green bowler hat is liable to send you an annual tax bill for anything up to five British shillings, or three sacks of potatoes, the local currency equivalent.
IF you stand on the rooftop of your house in Ireland, you can see across three counties. This is certainly true of myself and my own, Irish property, loath as I naturally am to visit it. For “three counties”, read “my back garden”.
There are redeeming features in the Irish, of course. Their church instils in their children the sort of fear of authority, benevolent or otherwise, which I have always striven to instil in my manservant Seppings. Moreover, while some criticised the Irish embassy in Bonn for sending a message of condolence to Germany following the death of Adolf Hitler, I, for one, considered it a sportsmanlike gesture to a worthy, fallen adversary which our own Mr Churchill would have done well to emulate.
Such were our benighted foes this evening, their child-frightening faces to a man fashioned by some pagan God more accustomed to making pewter jugs. The national anthems were at once the measure of the disparity between the nations far wider than any channel. Our own was yodelled with such lusty sincerity it is no wonder some of our players showed early signs of total exhaustion having rendered it. The Irish shambles, meanwhile, insufficiently booed, with its risible pretensions of nationhood commenced like some ramshackle brass band unaccustomed to playing instruments while standing on two legs, setting out to emulate the German national anthem but losing their way and wandering into the sea. There were a few chants of “No surrender to the IRA”, thankfully, for surrender to them we shall not. Nor Socialists like Michael Foot and Barbara Castle, or the Boers or the Prussians, for that matter.
The game began at a terrific pelt, the referee keeping a close eye on the Irish players lest they steal any of the Wembley turf, the English cocks thrusting forward in numbers. Every man jack in a white shirt gave 110% - 100% for club, 10% for country but this was no night to quibble about statistics. The Irish players looked on Wayne Rooney with envy. He physically embodied all that they were missing, particularly back in the 19th century during the Famine. Michael Carrick was barely noticeable and did nothing of any use whatsoever but that is often the sign of a great player, certainly an English one. Glenn Johnson was a brick in defence, and took to his duties like a brick to water. Rumours that Jermain Defoe was playing doubtless caused panic among the Irish defence. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain showed, time and again that there is no player more almost useful than he.
The Irish, meanwhile, capered randomly about the pitch like leprechauns in frantic search of an enchanted fiddle they had lost, in fear of a spanking from the Chief Gnome and being sent to bed without any peat potage. Amusingly, the ball bounced off the head of their forward, one Shane Long and into the net but this was quite clearly so contrary to his expectations it could not be counted as a goal. The insolent troglodyte, however, failed to apologise for his error to the England goalkeeper. Happily, Frank Lampard restored parity and sanity from close range, sending a clear message to Dublin that their brief time as a rogue nation was up; time to return to the commonwealth kennels, or face certain consequences of which more later.
Come the second half and England were bolstered by the presence of Leyton Buzzard at left back, who resembled little so much as a member of the English “mod” group the Leighton Baines – and Phil Jones, showing every sign of becoming the greatest player earth has ever known. Sure enough, he rampaged up and down the pitch like a farmhand chasing a pig through a turnip field that has made off with his sandwich, oinking triumphantly. And so, with England pranging the Irish defence like fellows of one of the more prestigious Oxford clubs pinging coins at a little fellow in green braces dancing a jig and blowing on a tin whistle for pennies, the too-merciful referee called a halt to the Gaelic torment. This was the cue for Irish players and fans alike to assemble at the nearest clearing depot for immediate deportation, ferried back by a fleet of barges.
There remains just one further order of business. Since the Irish have dared, once again to pit themselves against the realm and yet loiter parasitically on the doorstep of the British Isles, the time has come for them to truly be cut loose. I propose special forces, trained in the latest “fracking’ techniques, sent out to drill away at the foundations of Southern Ireland, in order to detach it from the earth’s core and free-float to Europe, where it apparently feels so much more at home. I envisage them drifting up and around the Iberian peninsula as if on a giant raft, shouting forlornly, “Pegs! Tarmac! Old Eurovision Song Contest songs!” to no avail. Such was the folly of 1922…[/quote]
Well done gola. Well written, mate.
John Giles reckons McClean has more ability than McGeady:oops:
That Phil Jones line is genius. Yer man’s England reports are always good value.
Thanks bandage