50 great footballing moments (Part 1)

FA CHALLENGE CUP FINAL 1957

Well, challenge was a strong word and the FA dropped it more or less when they started using a ball so flimsy which meant that through an absence of toughening, there was an increase of softening and any professional footballer who tries on a shoe that is a size too small for him in the modern day breaks a metatarsal. Cunting Cinderellas. Anyway...

Aston Villa v Manchester United. Busby is embarking on what a modern day psychologist would steal a fucking fee for nothing by calling it "a journey". His team of home-grown precocious talent with an average age of nine have won two league titles on the spin, one by eleven points and the repeat by eight points, scoring more than 100 goals in the process and showing a level of imperious domination that would not been seen until Tiger Woods would win the Masters by twelve shots and yet over the four days, play four more holes than the rest. With his cock.

Imagine the side - Roger Byrne, England captain, quietly spoken, right footed and at left back, average ball skills, shit header. Everything done by a supreme footballing brain and a leadership quality that had Hitler crying into his fucking beer on his Argentinian beef farm and out-of-town whorehouse. Eddie Colman, a man whose body swerve was so flummoxing that once while standing in a bus queue for Manchester town centre, stepped one way, went the other and caused fourteen people in the queue behind him to cross the road and get the bus to Bolton. They were twenty minutes along the route until they realised, by which time Colman was on the top deck at the front on his own pretending to be the driver. We've all done it. I could go through the rest one by one but it's a journey (sorry) you should take on yourself. They were the golden generation of English football, none of them fucked Wayne Bridge's ex or kicked fuck out of a jukebox because it wouldn't play "Runaway" by Del Shannon, they just got on with it. The one you have to mention however, is Duncan Edwards. The youngest man ever to play for England and a phenomenal talent, could play anywhere, huge and enthusiastic to a fault. Impossible to dislike, like Jeff Stelling only with immense ability in the field of football.

This band of immensely talented kids would in twelve months be no more in the biggest tragedy to strike English football both in human and sporting terms. This thread is irreverent in content but in terms of this side, it cannot be. They were, simply, brilliant. Everyone played for second behind them. Europe was quaking at the prospect of facing them.

So they were a cert for the FA Cup final at Wembley against midtable Villa. The first double in modern times is on the cards.

The final is over in six minutes. Ray Wood in goal collects a cross and sidesteps a Peter McParland challenge. McParland turns around and barges the living shit out of him anyway. Since in 1957 you were allowed to bugger a member of the opposition if the opportunity arose (they wore those baggy shorts for a reason) a shoulder barge was fair game. Trouble was, McParland's barge broke Ray Wood's jaw. In an amusing reverse of this scenario seven years later, Muhammad Ali twats a football past Sonny Liston to win the first round on points in a title fight but that's not quite relevant here. Wood is mauled, dazed and it turns out after the game, £25 light as McParland had his wallet away at the same time. He goes off and the substitute isn't allowed on until 1967. The game has 84 minutes to play and there are ten years to wait. Fuck.

Jackie Blanchflower goes in goal and Ray Wood goes on to the wing in the second hour after he comes round to make at least nuisance value. He spends the next forty minutes telling the linesman "I fucking know you" and pats non-existent pockets, stating that he has a pen here somewhere. This turn of events goes some way to balancing out the game and for the next hour, honours are even. Then McParland scores twice. Tommy Taylor (another giant) pulls one back and Ray Wood goes back in goal, muttering something about rainbows, but they can't turn it around. Villa win. Ray Wood leaves the pitch twenty minutes after the rest. Everyone had forgotten about him and had left him - apparently it was something about a wallet?

Villa win the cup, McParland is a Villan legend and a year later goes to the World Cup where he returns with a Czechoslovakian testicle, he denounces an Argentinian centre back who is "disappeared" by the secret police after twenty-seven minutes in the middle of a goalmouth scramble while the rest of the side maintain they only ever had ten, ever, please don't take me next and in the latest tackle ever seen in the game, takes out a West German completely by building the Berlin Wall across his sister's garden in 1961, three years after the final whistle. They fail to advance beyond the next round when France apply full secular authority to the game and he is surrounded for the full ninety minutes by French military police with riot shields and "Don't forget Sangatte, you twat" badges. They lose 4-0.

DENMARK V SPAIN 1986

The Americans had Benedict Arnold. Norway had Vidkun Quisling. The UK had Margaret Thatcher. Every country has its foul traitor in history but only one cites a footballer as its traitor.

The year is 1986. The nation: Denmark. The traitor: Jesper fucking Olsen

The world of football was aflame at the time. Brazil four years earlier had put out the best side never to win the World Cup. They lost their way a bit, however as they led their attack with Walter Casagrande, who would make Mick Harford look like Darcey Bussell. Ultimately, they would lose out to European Champions France who would lose to eventual finalists West Germany. Already you have behemoths such as Platini's France, a resurgent England now Quasi's playing, West Germany efficient as ever, the usual Brazil threat, galoot notwithstanding, Argentina with pocket battleship and celebrity cokist Diego Maradona, Italy... but they all had one thing in common.

They were shit scared of the Danes.

They went into the original group of death against Uruguay, West Germany and Scotland and twatted them in turn. They were strong in all departments, including ordering whores, keeping upright while drinking spirits and (mindful of Scotland '78) having water in the pool when they needed it. And they were fancied to win it.

So in the last sixteen, having pissed up so far, they met Spain. Spain's centre forward, Emilio Butragueno, had the nickname "the vulture". A play on words in his surname, it was also quite accurate as he was a hatchet faced reedy fucker. Who used to sit in trees. In terms of strength, he was powder puff and given Preben Elkjaer had scored three against uruguay, a team known to try and harvest your organs while you're playing, Elkjaer would appear to be the physically better specimen.

Unlike Olsen. Already a cunt through his association with Manchester United and his rabbit teeth, he blotted his copy book by receiving a pass from his keeper and trying to return it via Butragueno. Stupid bastard. From 1-0 up and ordering the Spaniards about like a Home Counties pensioner in a bar on Tenerife, he'd given the Spaniards a lifeline and they fucking strangled them with it.

They were twatted five-one, the Vulture got four and Spain had to wait until the next round when a vastly superior side would fucking spank them. And Jesper Olsen entered the Danish language as a phrase meaning "fuck up".

WADDLE'S PENALTY OH NO OH NO IN TURIN

If you want to despair about the World Cup in general, have a read of the '94 version. What a pile of shit. You knew it was going to be when Diana Ross missed that penalty and the goal collapsed, though - this is why rehearsal is so important. However, if you want to despair specifically about a World Cup and are English, go to 1990. Not 1970, where Alf makes a schoolboy error in substitution that, had it been repeated 30 years earlier, would have involved everyone having to swim two miles from Dunkirk to the little ships because "we're near enough". Oddly enough, Dunkirk was a perceived victory from what was a crushing defeat. Whereas Bonetti... But I digress.

Yes, 1990. The world of football is in a slump. Let's not paint too fine a picture of it - it was shit. Sandwiched between the subpar 1986 World Cup ruined as we see by Spain (it's further up the thread, go on, I'll still be here when you get back) it had the lowest goals-per-game ratio of all the World Cups and the reason was the arse had fallen out of the game. Everyone fell asleep watching England's group, which was nine hours of shit resolved by of all people, Mark Wright. You would think now that would be the equivalent of the Berlin Wall coming down and the only person you had on site to report was Tony Gubba but it wasn't. Mark Wright was in fact a monumental centre half for about twelve weeks of his life and half of them were in the 1990 off season. Des Walker was still quick, Paul Parker a fucking nuisance and Paul Gascoigne was still on the side of the door that was marked "SANITY - EXIT". We also could call on "nine-yard hat-trick" Lineker, Quasi and Neil Webb and it is testament to that team that they knew their ability and used to tell Neil Webb that the game was at another ground, "why don't you meet us there with your wife?"

So, after a group where the Republic of Ireland demonstrated that you could in fact play five games in a tournament and be considered unlucky despite scoring less than hatchet-faced misery Harriet Harman, lifetime, England showed that in a world of tight defences, they had the tightest by spending two hours arsing around with Belgium. That is, until David Platt performed the Indian rope trick to a Gazza free kick. If you watch the goal celebrations closely, the moment is so joyous and orgiastic in equal parts that you can see the second Lineker gets his balls tickled. In response to "yes, we're in the quarters, but it's fucking shit to watch", we then decided to throw caution to the wind, have a fight with Cameroon and see who could win on penalties without actually going to penalties. Lineker two, Cameroon one and a real goal each, we're in the semis.

The Hun. Vanquished in '66. Vainqueurs in '70 (Say it in French but with a German accent - then you'll get it). Shitty 0-0 draw in '82. Didn't meet '86, and '74 and '78 we were in fact watching fucking Poland and bastard Italy from our sofas. Game on.

The free kick we went behind to, well, another story, another day (likely to be SHITTERS - THE FOSSIL BETWEEN THE STICKS) but Winston had learnt that you could score from further out than four yards and it was honours even. Spot kicks. Fuck it.

Now we have to mention Sausage Boy. Part of the limited flair we had was also in the shambling gait of former sausage factory worker Chris Waddle. The natural successor to Paul Mariner in the "sort your fucking hair out, Michael Bolton" stakes, Waddle had a habit of looking as if he had shit his pants and was trying to keep it in. This was deceptive because he had a habit of pulling a scrap of mercurial genius out that would leave you gasping. Didn't do him any good, except it might have got him a bit of sex, maybe, but honourswise, you won things after he'd left, by and large. Like Marseille. They called him Magic Chris, because when he disappeared, the smoke cleared and there was the European Cup.

Anyway, in the semi, England hit the woodwork twice. From the left of the box, Waddle hit a cross-shot that rebounded off the inside of the post and had the entire country shouting "CUNT!" at the post. He also had his genius moment when later, fifty yards out, he noticed Bodo Illgner off his line and went for goal. Illgner roared "FUCK!", backpedalled, stretched full tilt (fucking hell, we had a grandad in goal who would only have gone for it if he'd left his battery-powered buggy running...) and got a hand on it and palmed it on to the bar. "BASTARD!" we bawled as a man. It was that close.

So the Oh No Oh No? Well, at penalties, despite hitting the inside of the post and landing the angels on the head of the pin in normal time, from twelve yards he put the fucking thing over the bar, the CUNTFUCKBASTARD. I still can't rewatch it even now, although it is burned into my brain and I can see it any time I want oh why oh why. The irony is of course that Sausage Boy, if you see him now, can't say the word "penalty". It always comes out wrong.

Yes, we knew that from 1990, you dreamwrecking cuntbubble. And we sent Neil Webb to Palermo. I hope his fucking wife is still there

SHITTERS - THE FOSSIL BETWEEN THE STICKS

It's the World Cup semi final 1990. England are a pretty tight unit and for once, for fucking once, we're about to put one over the Villainous Hun. As Alf would say if he'd said it "We have nothing to beat but ourselves".

We should have beat the 84-year-old cunt between the sticks, then. With clubs or, since it was Italy, with salami.

Peter Shilton made his England debut in 1588 in a goalless draw against the Armada. He stayed in goal for the next four hundred fucking years (alternating with Ray Clemence and once, for a laugh, with Phil Parkes's moustache). At the end of this spell, of course, he was fucking useless. Springs had gone, stuffing coming out, the only link he had with legend Gordon Banks at this stage was that Banks started at Chesterfield, Shilton looked and moved like a fucking Chesterfield.


A CHESTERFIELD, TODAY

So the game. Well, the incident is simple. Germany get a free kick, it's tapped aside, Brehme shoots, Paul Parker has managed to charge it down, the ball thinks about going into space but then remembers its job - to mock the old cunt - and comes back down. Shitters sees the ball balloon up, backpedals, backpedals, backpedals, falls over and gets a hand to it to help it over the line. Alan Rough pisses himself laughing while watching on the portable in the Snug. He's pulling a round of six pints of Guinness and the cockle man has just come in - impeccable timing. Must nip downstairs to change the barrel when there's a break in play as well. Might leave Janice to look after both bars for a few minutes if it gets meaty and take a transistor radio into the cellar. We'll see.

Meanwhile, in Turin, the ten in white can't believe they've stopped the Germans, charged down the free kick and they're still a goal down. So much for glucosamine, the old fucker would have been better off with Ronseal.

As we know, England draw, lose on penalties (the old cunt stands on the line for all the kicks and just prays one will hit him) and play the hosts in the third and fourth place final. Despite it being a dead rubber, he manages to gift another fucking goal there to Roberto Baggio because he's not in the slightest bit dangerous, is he, Peter? Just pick the fucking thing up.

He never played for England again. OK, he retired because they'd probably have still fucking persisted with him. Not completely getting the message, though, he played on for another 7 years, including joining three sides who wisely didn't give him a game. He packed in once he'd played one thousand games which he finally achieved by growing a beard and pretending he was someone else to Leyton Orient. The ruse was successful for nine games until the Orient fans realised that he couldn't move and was made of teak. Rumour has it that five games over the line, he was aiming for two thousand appearances and an England comeback. The mad fucker.

THE FOOTBALL WAR

OK, it's 1969, and although politics and sport shouldn't mix, fuck it.

Immigration between El Salvador and Honduras is causing no uncertain degree of political friction. Honduras is big. El Salvador has more people. Consequently, Salvadorians spilled into Honduras, moved on to or occupied unused land (depending on how you felt about it) and raised a living from it.

Honduras were a bit fucked off by this, passed laws to redistribute the land among their own and evicted the Salvadorians back over the border. The Salvadorians could feel anything they like, including hard done by, but they could go do it at home. Big fuck-off raspberry from the Honduras government, what are you going to do? That was in 1967.

8 June 1969. Concacaf, rather than be "who should finish second to Mexico and just miss out?", have a dilemma. Mexico are hosts and despite attempts to the contrary, they have to be there. England have also qualified and are taking the Russian linesman with them. Concacaf need another. Needless to say, their qualification can be a bit routine. Four groups of three and the USA top theirs in front of Baffin Island and Greenland Wanderers. Haiti get past an uninhabited island off the coast of Venezuela and a country recently drowned in volcanic ash. The other two groups are topped by, yes, Honduras, seeing off two countries that are hosts to marijuana plantations and what's left of the Third Reich, and El Salvador, who somehow manage to beat every bit left of the behemoth that is the Dutch Empire except for Holland itself, which therefore counts two beach huts full of sun lounger salesmen and the best of three dozen blokes whose intentions are clear as they are trying to build a raft with the words "Holland or bust" on the sail ever since the brown café idea they had failed when they realised that to attract tourists, it would be a better idea to have hotels, entertainment and oh my fucking Christ an airport to get in to start with.

So the four in the semis, it's a two-to-one chance the angry neighbours meet. It's a bit less than that when the USA and Haiti balls come out of the bag first. The Yanks are ecstatic. Not because they think they can beat Haiti, but because they think someone is taking the piss - one country has a capital called Tegucigalpa? Fuck off, you're making that up, how the fuck could you fit that into "We're on the march with Tricky's army, we're all going to..."? Aside from them having no support in Honduras because they wouldn't be able to spell it for a tour operator, let alone pronounce it, what about El Salvador? Capital San Salvador? Is the President called Jeff Salvador by any chance? And "hello" in their language is "Salvador Salvador Salvador", do you reckon? We might be American but we're not gullible (again, Tricky Dicky is President and laughing his cock off at this remark).

Global politics is the not the strong point of the Americans but they've heard of Haiti. That's where they have the voodoo (who do? You do. We do? You do, voodoo) and are between the Dominican Republic, where the baseball players come from, and Cuba, where the Commie fucking bastards come from, with their rum and excellent cigars...

Anyway, the tension between El Salvador and Honduras is palpable. They play the first leg in Honduras and Honduras don't help by allowing the Salvadorian team in but only after they check their pockets and ask them to open their bags in case they're smuggling farmers. They win 1-0, scoring because they prevent El Salvador from defending a quarter of the pitch by evicting players from there and telling them they aren't allowed back as they redistribute that bit of the pitch among the Honduran subs.

El Salvador's response is swift. Because the return fixture is only a week later and the effect would be somewhat diluted if they did it afterwards. Consequently, as a rallying point, when a girl shoots herself immediately after the first game, El Salvador's response (in a spectacular fit of warped reasoning) is to televise her funeral live. Truly. With the president, the national team and a banner saying "We're going to fuck them good in the return" in the cortege. OK, the banner was implicit...

Unfortunately, further to this, the station who get the TV rights use a hairy dickhead (Ricardo Llaves) and a balding imbecile (Andres Gris) to do the commentary and they blot their copybooks by first being overheard saying that "had it been a bloke who shot himself, he'd have made a cleaner exit wound" and "mind you, even dead I'd smash its back doors in" and then cutting to an advert twelve seconds before the body is committed to the ground.

The entire country is primed to explode. Honduras turn up having had to tunnel into the ground. The national anthem is replaced by "Your Cheatin' Heart" by Hank Williams and the Honduras flag is burnt. It looks like a dishcloth is run up the flag in its stead but it can be now revealed that the offending item was in fact the President's last roll of Andrex and it had been used. In an atmosphere where football is the last thing on the mind of the team whose shirts have all had the names "Custer" embroidered into them, El Salvador twat Honduras 3-0 and in a feat of intelligence that belies the slightest bit of intellect, the arms of FIFA think that one win each at an aggregate of 3-1, despite every other fucking two-legged tournament in the world showing otherwise, is a draw. Madness, violence and more violence ensue. It is madness: violent, violent madness. I cannot stress how violent it is. Nor indeed, how mad.

Madly violent.

They sealed the border after the game. They play off in ten days' time. In Mexico.

El Salvador of course looked back at the home leg, saw how incensed their people became and the result they achieved and decided to go nuclear. However, not having a nuclear capability fucked that so they went next best. On the team sheet, it read as follows

01. Salvador
02. Salvador
03. Salvador
04. Salvador
05. Salvador
06. Salvador
07. Salvador
08. Salvador
09. Salvador
10. Salvador
11. Salvador
Subs. Salvador, Salvador, Salvador, Salvador, Salvador

PS - We have severed all diplomatic ties with Honduras and have closed the border again. Prepare yourself for guerrilla warfare, cuntybollocks. ¡Viva El Salvador!

It worked. El Salvador might have had one less international relationship but it had made it through to the final round of qualifying, winning 3-2 after extra time. The war started in earnest about three weeks later with an air raid from El Salvador who, despite having no bombers or bombs, raided every DFS in the country and dropped furniture from Boeing 747s on Honduras for four days solid with nothing to pay for a year. They only stopped when they could not build as fast as they could drop them and so they finally ran out (incidentally, of Ottomans) on the fourth day. At that point everyone was told to turn on the TV as the Americans, knocked out by Haiti, had decided to try and land on the Moon instead. Both sides were amazed; Hondurans were all sat around in wonder; the Salvadorians all standing up because their chairs were lying in some fucking field over the border. The commentary for the same was however marred by Llaves and Gris who said the module landing reminded them of how they'd like the new intern to lower herself down on to their thrusters, and how the bouncing in the suits was probably because the three blokes in a rocket probably had a play about "with each others' rockets" and were a bit "light in their loafers".

The impact would be seen the world around:

Scotland would lose in West Germany and Austria and would fail to qualify as a result, citing the Football War as the reason (chinny reckon). The next time this would happen would be in 1994, where they would refuse to score at home in their first two home fixtures because they were shit were against the concept of a World Cup in the USA.

El Salvador would qualify after another fucking stupid aggregate result - 2-4 - against Haiti needing a playoff which they would win, again in extra time but this time in Jamaica. There is no truth in the rumour that they threatened the Haitians with a recent restocking of occasional tables and wardrobes at very affordable prices, 0% finance.

Buzz Aldrin would never get over it and lives on today solely to try and outlive Neil Armstrong.

Llaves and Gris work for Men And Motors in the UK and HablaDesporte, a shit radio station that takes in tramps.

Q. HOW TO BREAK OUT OF JAIL WITHOUT REALLY TRYING?
A. You sit still and let the jail walk away.

The next story is a follow-up to the previous story of death, violence and the military destruction of affordable furniture on easy terms. (ETA some time this evening... watch for edits)

Update: Unfortunately, a cable was found to be buried under this thread and consequently it has been cordoned off until we can complete it. However, in a brief preview clip of what's to come, there will be tables, the worst attempt at match fixing ever and a rampant Hungarian Kiss.

"Hi there, we're back, I hope you enjoyed that brief interlude - not since the heyday of Grandstand have we seen a man so happy to be chained to a radiator while having a cardigan shoved up his jacksy - over to you Francis for the weather."
_______________________________________________________________________________

Q. HOW TO BREAK OUT OF JAIL WITHOUT REALLY TRYING?
A. You sit still and let the jail walk away.

Earlier we covered the glorious El Salvador campaign to qualify for the 1970 World Cup finals at the expense of neighbours and diplomatic enemies Honduras, Haiti, who stalk these threads like Dino Zoff's worst nightmare other than an Allied tank division manned by ten Johnny Metgods, and all the furniture you could order for one week only at better than half price with no deposit and nothing to pay for a year.

We move forward a decade. And a bit more. Basically, twelve years, but there isn't a convenient term for that. Three Olympiads. How about that?

It's 1981 and the Concacaf bandwagon has reached Honduras. In a spectacular manipulation of Central American voting, as previously pointed out elsewhere on these boards, the Honduras FA successfully smuggled four pistols into the voting chamber for the championship which would double as the World Cup qualification tournament for the succeeding year in Spain where everyone would be able to speak the language, buy chorizo and not have to wear moustaches now Franco is dead.

As votes for the host nation for the championship were about to take place (usual result: every nation votes for itself, Mexico get to host because they have the largest supply of footballs), the Honduras FA chairman and his lover pulled out their penises pistols and suggested that it may be politic to vote for Honduras. Everyone agreed and the vote was unanimous but for one abstention - El Salvador, because they shot the FA chief there anyway before he could vote - the chairman's lover's mother had been flattened in 1969 by a stray breakfast bar stool on the third day of raids and he'd never got over it - to this day he cannot eat Cheerios without weeping at the sad irony of the name.

So, Honduras would host in their own back yard (well, as we know now, the FA Chairman's shed, Port-au-Prince) the qualification tournament for Espana82. And I'm not saying that it would be suitably predictable and that Central American sides are not prone to bribery, corruption and fabricated results, but Mexico might just qualify as well.

The tournament would run from November 1 to November 22. The six sides lining up would be Honduras, El Salvador, Mexico, Cuba, Haiti and... Canada. Yes, the hotheaded Latin temperament of five nations, two of which until twelve months earlier had ceased diplomatic relations, and a sixth team with all the spice of a dry white bread sandwich (two slices of white bread with a slice of white bread filling - mmm, bready). What fun... needless to say, everyone was looking forward to the weapons on show when El Salvador would go to visit the hosts - rumours abounded that they were going to return the shitty Andrex flag of 1969. We'll see...

The tournament appeared to be pretty clear from the outset - Mexico bummed Cuba silly to the tune of four goals. Two days later and the hosts would yank down the shorts of the Haitians and sate themselves to the same tune. Between the two, Canada playing with gay abandon would defeat an El Salvador team (who would spend 90 minutes waiting for the pitch invasion of Honduras fans armed with chair legs and orthopaedic springs and forget the football) by a huge single fucking goal.

It is at this point the arse begins to fall out of the script. After the first three days which look like the Cubans and the Haitians will be praying to Baron Samedi and Leonid Brezhnev to avoid the wooden spoon while the Mexicans are staying in the houses of their Honduran counterparts looking for nice all inclusive deals around Torremolinos next summer, the tournament is turned on its head. El Salvador sucker punch Mexico by a single goal on the same day and in the same stadium (and you have to wonder, at the same time?) that Canada, ever exciting Canada, play out a riveting 1-1 draw with Haiti. Honduras win again and a third time too, while El Salvador draw 0-0 with Cuba which would have been a better game had they both stayed at home and got pissed on rum while watching Castro’s speeches (“a finger every time he strokes his beard, comrades”) and Mexico draw with Haiti and Canada. Seven days remain in the tournament and the only thing that is clear from the table below aside for the almost certain qualification of Honduras is that…

Team Pl W D L F A Pts GD
Honduras 3 3 0 0 8 1 6 +7
Mexico 4 1 2 1 6 3 4 +3
Canada 4 1 2 1 4 4 4 0
El Salvador 3 1 1 1 1 1 3 0
Cuba 4 1 1 2 2 6 3 -4
Haiti 4 0 2 2 2 8 2 -6


…CONCACAF is really shit. The next game though, should liven it up. Honduras can qualify outright with a game to spare just by drawing. And they'd be up against the chair-bombing bastards of downtown San Salvador! "Oh, deliverance, we can win, qualify in style and put out the argumentative shit cunts from across the way! Honduras could have a new National Day - 16 November, "Cunt off El Salvador, We're Going The World Cup Finals Day", we could call it."

It narrowly failed to pass in the Honduras parliament by a twist of fate where the necessary vote took place while the game was on and all the "ayes" didn't vote because they had mysteriously all copped for a ticket for the game. I think Neil Fucking Kinnock went as well as training for future cup finals where he also wouldn't be fucking wanted.

The game, billed as a game of deliverance, however, only managed to deliver the shits to all involved. Another draw, through spirited defence from El Salvador in the face of a mortal enemy who it was found had eaten two of the Salvadorian subs at half time as they would, as is repeated in the future chart-topping but not cannibalistically intended words of Take That, "Never Forget". El Salvador had somehow given themselves an outside chance of qualifying but the fact that the Pope had scored more often lifetime than them and their goal difference was nil meant they were behind Canada on goals scored and behind Mexico on a substantial goal difference with one to play. Remember the 1972 league title? Neither did Mexico nor Canada but rumour has it Kevin Hector had been spotted around the grounds of Serie A Del Salvador... One to play and the table looked like this
Team Pl W D L F A Pts GD
Honduras 4 3 1 0 8 1 7 +7
Mexico 4 1 2 1 6 3 4 +3
Canada 4 1 2 1 4 4 4 0
El Salvador 4 1 2 1 1 1 4 0
Cuba 4 1 1 2 2 6 3 -4
Haiti 4 0 2 2 2 8 2 -6


Next up, El Salvador v Haiti. Mindful of the goal difference requirement and the goals scored thing, El Salvador needed really to win and win well. Two goals could give them a shout on goal difference regarding Canada – five minimum would give some wiggle room with Mexico. El Salvador came out all guns blazing and then unfortunately remembered they had no guns, something about a cabinet charge on a hostile neighbour a few years back…

It ends up 1-0 El Salvador. If Canada win their last against already-out Cuba, El Salvador get to plan their World Cup from an armchair with the El Salvador Radio Times and a take out from Alberto’s Booze Shop. Even then Mexico could overtrump the fucking pair of them and they’ve got that Hugo Sanchez bloke, you know, Real Madrid star, looks like the love child of Leo Sayer and Colonel Gaddafi, and he can score goals.

Here’s the table as it stood. If either third or fourth side won, they knocked out El Salvador. At this point, the 19th November, Kevin Hector took them all to Majorca where they rendezvoused with Terry Hennessey.
Team Pl W D L F A Pts GD
Honduras 4 3 1 0 8 1 7 +7
El Salvador 5 2 2 1 2 1 6 +1
Mexico 4 1 2 1 6 3 4 +3
Canada 4 1 2 1 4 4 4 0
Cuba 4 1 1 2 2 6 3 -4
Haiti 5 0 2 3 2 9 2 -7


Timeline: 21 November. Headline: “TEARS IN OTTAWA”. Canada 2 Cuba 2. The Canadians score as many in 90 minutes as El Salvador score in the entire tournament but it isn’t enough. The draw leaves the El Salvador squad in second place, sunning themselves on a beach at Alcudia and Kevin Hector buys an ice cream for the entire squad to celebrate. “Single scoop, lads, no sprinkles, we’re not there yet, but you have to fancy we have a chance”.

“Boss, who plays Mexico the last game?”
“Honduras”
“Snivellin-pigdog-traitor-neighbours-playing-at-home Honduras?”
“Yes”
“Already-qualified-fielding-a-team-of-pensioner-amputee-girls Honduras?”
“Yes”
“And Mexico have Leo Sayer”
“Yes”
“I don’t want an ice cream, Boss”
“Fuck you then, more for me”

Colin Boulton nips the bar in the background. "Do you do mild? What about bitter? No, I don't want fucking Red Barrel, we won the Watney Cup , you know. Drank our own piss from it rather than fill it with a Party Seven."
Team Pl W D L F A Pts GD
Honduras 4 3 1 0 8 1 7 +7
El Salvador 5 2 2 1 2 1 6 +1
Canada 5 1 3 1 6 6 5 0
Mexico 4 1 2 1 6 3 4 +3
Cuba 5 1 2 2 4 8 4 -4
Haiti 5 0 2 3 2 9 2 -7


Anyway, last game, the day no-one actually shot Kennedy, honest, 22 November. Honduras, through as winners, don't give a fuck but don't really care for the country who would benefit from certain results, the San Salvador SCUUUUUM, against the might of Mexico, the only country in Central America that uses football pitches for football and not the routine mass murder of dissidents. A Mexico win of any stripe sees them through to the World Cup finals once again, flying the flag for CONCACAF alongside their Honduran hosts with whom last night they shared many, many whores at no charge to the Honduran Exchequer.

The final table is below...
Team Pl W D L F A Pts GD
Honduras 5 3 2 0 8 1 8 +7
El Salvador 5 2 2 1 2 1 6 +1
Mexico 5 1 3 1 6 3 5 +3
Canada 5 1 3 1 6 6 5 0
Cuba 5 1 2 2 4 8 4 -4
Haiti 5 0 2 3 2 9 2 -7


HONDURAS 0 MEXICO 0. Despite the clear and understandable possibility of a soft result generated through a bit of mutual whoremongering and a desire of both of them to fuck El Salvador, the game ended goalless. Perhaps Mexico just couldn't make it convincing and the amputee girl guides were too well-minded in defence. Perhaps it was the worst day at the office in Mexican football history. Or perhaps it was the virulent and crippling attack of pubic lice that the Mexicans suffered from their night with the Honduras team and many, many whores (at Mexico's expense) who actually turned out to be prostitutes hand picked from El Salvador by the Salvadorian Chief Medical Officer. Who knows? The result meant that El Salvador qualified for the World Cup three days after they played their last game while sitting on a beach in Majorca (Liverpool and Revie's Leeds, does this hurt to read?) "getting out of jail by sitting still and letting the jail just walk away" in a fashion that was completely against the odds and to reward them, the President awarded to the prostitutes a two week course of penicillin equivalent, a bag of sulphur powder (or whatever it is that kills crabs. Derbac and a fine toothed comb?) and a trip to Spain with the boys next summer "once clean". He bestowed the Order of the Armadillo on the entire squad, along with a goat and a pack of pencils (2b) each. And yes, Kevin Hector bought each and every one of them a double scoop, chocolate and vanilla with sprinkles, nuts and syrup. And a Flake. You could see the tears of joy tripping down Roy McFarland's face. Happy days...

Tournament total goals - El Salvador (the country going the World Cup) 2, Muammar Sanchez Sayer-Gaddafi (call me "Hugooooooo") 3. You have to laugh. If you're from San Salvador.

Part one of the odyssey ends at qualification. Part two is to follow...

KISS ME I'M A HUNGARIAN

El Salvador's record-breaking boredom in the CONCACAF finals did not go unnoticed. Aside from the odd barb to the tune of "if you'd defended like that in '69, you mightn't have needed two playoffs and a war", they were going to Spain, they had put out Mexico and with their solid defensive ethic, could they actually cause a shock or two while they were out there?

"Anything is possible in the next half hour (said Thunderbirds AKA International Rescue who were incidentally based on an island not a million miles from El Salvador) and that goes treble for a game of football". A marvellous sentiment you must agree but particularly apposite as the tournament opened spectacularly with holders Argentina losing to fat chips-and-mayonnaise-gorging, chocolate-and-loopy-juice monk lovers Belgium, a country whose claim to fame is the fantastic entry of "Home of many battles fought by other countries because our army are a bit like the school fat kids on cross country, a capital whose emblem is a small boy taking a leak and a country that borders Holland and France" thus making it famous for being (i) beaten up, (ii) a skinful of piss and flashers and (iii) close to something far more attractive without actually having any redeeming features of its own.

And lace. I forgot lace. They even had a striker named Ludo Coeck, whose name translated out of the original Flemish becomes "Load of cock".

Anyhow, this game was important because if it were to set the scene for the group, the next game between the other two group members was Hungary v El Salvador. Hungary had qualified with some ease, having been in the same group as the perennially shit England who, having failed to qualify on merit since 1962, did their level best to fail again and yet still made it. Hungary were so safe in qualification that they lost to England both home and away and still won the fucking group with a game to spare since the other three teams could only muster two wins each, or as I like to say "one win plus the game against England at home, your boys took a hell of a beating". England qualified in second by sheer luck of the draw, the other sides fighting among themselves while England slipped through via the back door and the shin of Paul Mariner.

It looked like it could be tight - El Salvador were as awkward to deal with and difficult to pass as two gallstones holding hands and pretending to be a peanut. Hungary, though pretty free scoring, could lose to England at will and so consequently could be absolutely anything or nothing or something in between.

The game kicked off. After a massive struggle or titanic proportions, El Salvador finally succumbed in the fourth minute and conceded the same amount they suffered in seven and a half hours in Concacaf (and that though Canada in the last minute, eh?), proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Concacaf, and in particular Mexico, are really, really shit.

Half time saw further damage - Hungary 3 El Salvador 0. With a further two in the ten minutes after half time, and in an attempt to limit damage, the El Salvador coach turned to Santería to see if he could stop the flow of goals and even reverse it. In a bargain with the Dark Forces, he left his query with one loophole and like Spain would do in four years time to Denmark, his ancestral shades strangled him with it.

He asked for the dark side to stop the boys on the pitch destroying his team and gave up his eternal soul. They concurred and immediately, the Central American leaky buckets pulled one back. 5-1. Trouble was, he'd made the bargain in relation to the players on the pitch. A minute after the bargain, Hungary substituted one of the cursed for the comically named Laszlo Kiss (English translation: Glasgow Kiss) who had no curse upon him. After a quarter of an hour, Kiss (think I'd better dance now) scores. 6-1. Hungary bring on another sub, he scores from the kick off and the El Salvador ancestors are laughing their cocks off. 7-1. Not content with these two master strokes and the two goals in a minute, they score a further two in the next six minutes and Laszlo "I've never butted anyone in my life" Kiss has scored a hat trick as a sub having only been on the park inside 22 minutes and the three goals were scored in a total of seven minutes. 9-1. The curse just picked itself up and fucked off early to get the car out before the rush at full time and missed the tenth, scored by the skipper who started it all less than two hours earlier. 10-1 and six of those in the last half hour. Talk about needing International Rescue... (Jesus, that was a lot of work for that punchline).

The trail effectively ended there - they lost 2-0 to Argentina in the last game when essentially out, having lost the second game to the serenely dull Belgians, 1-0. Goal scored by, yes, Load of Cock. Ironically, Hungary failed to make the next round as they lost to Argentina and drew with Belgium. Whereas England won their group without dropping a point. The jammy bastards.

Been readin these over the last 24 hours Bert.
Total fucking genius.

THE 2ND GREATEST CONCACAF SWINDLE

I'll cover the greatest some other time in this sojourn. Needless to say, it will involve Mexico, the cheeky fuckers, the only football playing nation in CONCACAF and even then they fail to qualify on occasion.

Right, although two occasions have been listed above showing Honduras's involvement in World Cup history, little was known of the Central American also-rans despite their going to war with football as a side dish and their arch-manipulation of the '82 qualifying tournament.

Still, the qualification for '82 has been covered and we'll go to the finals there. The hardest bit of the qualification for them, as we've seen, was the flying to Spain on the same PanAm flight as the also-qualified El Salvador squad - on arrival both squads were down to 20 as they both lost (fortunately only) two subs in a brawl (who, because of fiduciary constraints only went because they could afford to donate a goat to the relevant FA - the Honduras second choice striker, for example, could not go because his wife's medical bills for the birth of his firstborn child six months earlier had meant he had a goatverdraft with the Bank of Honduras and the FA would not accept his offer of milk futures). As far as I am aware they are still sharing a cell just outside Madrid with a forgotten 92-year-old anarchist from the Spanish Civil War who's quite "cómodo, gracias" and Barry Jackson, an apprentice joiner from Reading who was arrested in Bilbao after the Kuwait game for pissing on the Catedral de Santiago and is still awaiting trial.

Anyway, aside from that incident, they got to Spain where they were advised of their group.
1. Hosts Spain (response: "You're fucking joking? We get here for the first time ever and when we do, we're going to have to play against a hostile crowd, not of neutrals, but of enough partisan people to make our third biggest city?")
2. Yugoslavia (response: "You're fucking joking? An invented country made up of about 60 other fucking countries? Jesus, two years ago we got Belize to be called Belize instead of British Honduras. These have more parts than an Italian tank has reverse gears and they're taken seriously?")
3. Northern Ireland (response: see below)

We depart from the tale above to note that the Honduras response to the statement that Northern Ireland would be their third opponent was identical to the Northern Ireland response that they would be meeting Honduras. And here it is:

"There's no such fucking country, you're making it up"

Honduras said "Ireland?"
The reply was "No, Ireland is a different country".
"Is there a Southern Ireland?"
"Yes, that's Ireland"
"So Southern Ireland is Ireland and Northern Ireland isn't Ireland"
"Yes... and no"
"Well which ones are the Irish?"
"Both of them"
"Fuck off".

It took the Honduran ambassador in Madrid to sort it out with the Irish ambassador, whose team weren't even fucking there because they'd had to wait two months for the fucking French to do them on goal difference six months previous. They gave him free tickets for the games for his troubles, though, and a goat, which he gratefully accepted, fucked, slaughtered and ate.

Northern Ireland's response was similar but different.
"Honduras?"
"Yes"
"Isn't it Belize now?"
"No, that's British Honduras."
"I suppose they border, like the two Irelands?"
"No."
"Fuck off"
"No, really, it borders Nicaragua, Guatemala..."
"You're fucking making these up"
"...and El Salvador"
"Hang on, is the countryside littered with side tables and sofa beds?"
"Yes"
"I think my brother flew jets there once as a mercenary back end of the sixties. If you can remember it, you weren't there..."

They accepted it then. And had to get their own goat.

So, the games. First up, Spain. They decided not to unpack. However, there is a moment that comes where a single defining point changes everything and the spirit of the Catrachos was raised to the point that they unpacked, laughing, singing and dancing, looking forward to their destiny. Yes, the day before the game, as we have seen, Hungary bummed El Salvador to the tune of so many goals that the Spanish hosts had to employ a man to stand beside the scoreboard holding aloft a zero to accurately reflect the score.

The uplift that the Honduras coach used was
(i) we can lose 9-0 tomorrow and no-one will bat an eyelid
(ii) we can lose 5-0 and we're still the best side in Central America
(iii) Mexico aren't here, let's enjoy that

It worked. To the tune that after 8 minutes, they had caused problems enough to Spain to go 1-0 up, and to Ron "racially sensitive" Atkinson who, as ITV's expert, when wanting to talk about the "plucky..." realised he didn't have a brief on the appropriate demonymic. And so he went it alone. Which meant that inside a quarter of an hour, not unlike this author calling Salvadorans "Salvadorians" (my excuse being the Spanish is Salvadoreño), Big Ron has called the Hondurans, obviously without excuse
• Hondurans
• Hondurians
• Honduranians
• Hondurasians
• Fucking Pygmies
• Hondurasers
• Latinis
• Hondurers
• Spanish
• Hondurese
• The Wales of Central America
• China


Spain pulled one back after FIFA, the Spanish FA and the Argentinian ref put together a suitable bribe package to arrange a penalty in the second half, but Honduras had a point and if they could get a couple of results against this fabricated alliance and this country that they still don't believe exists, they could make the second stage!

They played Northern Ireland next and both sides lined up looking warily at each other, neither believing the other really existed. It was like watching the Tooth Fairy eying up a unicorn. Just to add to the mythical element, the referee was from Hong Kong and so he effectively had the role of Willy Wonka and after ninety minutes of fairytale action, the Honduras dream was still alive as they'd drawn, Northern Ireland having scored through Cinderella's fairy godmother and Honduras equalising when the Irish defence froze in the face of the Gorgon Medusa as she snaked in at the far post (fuck me, that's brilliant even if I say so myself). 1-1. A point better than Yugoslavia, Yugoslavia to play. Winner goes through, surely, with the draw onside for the Hondurans (yes, Ron, Hondurans)?

It turned out academic. The fucking Serbians, Bosnians, Slovenians, Montenegrins, Kosovans, Macedonians, Herzegovinans and the ones I'm missing - oh yes, Croatians - were given another penalty by another South American ref two minutes from the end in an attempt to ensure Spain went through without worrying about the result against Narnia the next evening. Turns out that was well founded and that goal may be found on the "Greatest" thread in the near future, but to quote Aslan the Lion (since we're talking about Narnia) "that is someone else's story". And with that, Honduras went home with two points and the earned respect of a world who previously, had you said Honduras to them, would have said "can you spell that, please?". They were owners of the mantle of Central America's premier side and had both the joy of not being buttfucked by nine goals and having taken advantage of a great deal on a job lot of Andalusian goats. A future to build on? Maybe, but like the Spanish building sites they left behind, it would be twenty-eight years before it was realised...

HONDURAS 2 - THE PHANTOM MENACE

Well let's face it, Lucas does three films, fucks off for a couple of decades and then rattles off three more only in a different world with CGI. Well, Honduras did the same - qualified for the WC in 1982 by fair means or foul, next qualification, 2010.

Even then that wasn't cut and dried, as, not unlike Lucasworld, the platform off which they were launching had changed substantially. Whereas for decades it had been "fucking Mexico cunts", the bandwagon effect had spread over CONCACAF and it wasn't as shit any more. The Mexicans were of course still right in there but now a force to be reckoned with in the game was Costa Rica - the natural successors of Honduras in the "you're making that fucking country up" stakes, they became the first Central American side (Mexico are considered North American historically so that they could qualify against egg chuckers and hockey players) to beat a European side at a World Cup finals and the victims were naturally Scotland.

That's still enough though because the expansion of the World Cup meant that Honduras would still be the third best side? Think again. The fucking Septics, with their own freakshow national sports now full of participants over 6 feet 4 inches and weighing more than Micky Droy with chips and a side salad suddenly realised after 1994, when they held their own show, that they had an outlet for the smaller kids who would usually get to take "band" for sports. If they took up (let's see, what's it called... oh yeah) "soccer" they might have a career playing it professionally in the Yurpean (I think that's how they spell it, Elmer) leagues with Tottingham Hotshots and Real Candida Albicans. And these kids together had been fashioned into a useful side. Yes, they might still name their kids the wrong way round (it should be Donovan Landon, dickhead) but they can play. The consequence? Honduras were now fourth in the pecking order and there were three places.

However, there was a backdoor fourth place open also if they ended up there. However, they'd have to play the fifth placed team in South America for that. "But we are not Australia?" said CONCACAF. But that's another story...

Qualification went apace. There were thirty-five participants in the tournament, varying from the 200 million Americans and their newly-found national league structure to the outlying British Overseas Territory of Anguilla, whose stipulation for selection is "the two blokes we have from Slough Town and once we have nine more citizens at the ground, we have a game". What happened was they had the worst 23 kick the shit out of each other and then in the succeeding rounds, the best twelve would whittle themselves down to six and then have a round robin.

The big four were still there and it became tight to the point that in the last game, all three would kick off and it would be
USA 19
Mexico 18
Costa Rica 15
Honduras 13
El Salvador 8
Trinidad and Tobago 5

The Septics and the Mexicans were already through. Costa Rica would need to win to be certain or hope that Honduras would not win in, yes, El Salvador. Get the sofas ready, we're in for a bumpy ride. El Salvador, out and playing for pride, kicked the shit out of Honduras for two and a half hours, having started an hour before kick off but somehow managed to lose by a single goal. Honduras came off the park and immediately sought the score in the States as a Septic win does them, a draw also on goal difference .

So, great, the cunting bastard Yanks, already through, had gone two down. Twenty minutes to go, they pull one back but now it's all over in San Salvador, they pick up the radio to hear that in the RFK Memorial in Washington, the Imperialist pigdogs of a bankrupt culture bundle one home ironically with a scrappier shot than the one of Sirhan Sirhan's that saw off Bobby. None of the Septics see the irony, the witless cunts, and Honduras, unbelievably are through. The streets of Tegucigalpa are awash with men pissed on cane spirit and chatting up goats.

So on to South Africa, and the draw comes out:
Spain. No. 1 side in the world, unbeaten in more games than there are citizens in Anguilla, Spain. Fucking great.
Chile. You mean Chile where that fucking ref came from who gave the Yugoslavs the penalty in '82? Chile who qualified in second, a point behind Brazil and with three fucking games to spare? Fucking great.
Switzerland. That fucking team who never conceded a goal in the 2006 effort? Fucking great.

There was no fairy tale. Honduras, after four and a half hours of effort, scored less than the Chilean miners did and went home with one point from a 0-0 draw with the Swiss. Spain would go on to win the World Cup while Chile would come up again Brazil - again - and get twatted - again. The Hondurans, enduring philsophical, responded with the short rhyme
"It's one point more
than El Salvador".

Nobby Cheese wrote:Been readin these over the last 24 hours Bert.
Total fucking genius.

I'd thought of the love child of Leo Sayer and Colonel Gaddafi a propos of nothing, Tone, and couldn't find it on here... Hadn't put them back

"So Southern Ireland is Ireland and Northern Ireland isn't Ireland"
"Yes... and no"
"Well which ones are the Irish?"
"Both of them"
"Fuck off".

Unlike Olsen. Already a cunt through his association with Manchester United and his rabbit teeth

It's been a while, and this thread mightn't be the place for it, but "great" can also mean "calamitous".

And with that, today, it's

IAN WRIGHT - STUPID CUNT

In, unsurprisingly, The Sun

   "The next young player who says he does not want to play for England should be ordered to ring the parents of a soldier who has died serving his country in Afghanistan and tell them his reasons."

Well, where to begin?

OK...

1. Just to see if we can cause him to foam at the mouth, show him this well-remembered picture, albeit out of time/context/relevance, since he started this fucking game. "Wright, is this the England team you are talking about?"

"Look chaps, there's Hitler, let's wave..."

2. My father was serving in Egypt when England were snotted 3-6 by Hungary at Wembley in 1953. I believe those players or their ghosts owe my father's ghost an apology. Also, the Puskas drag back should be a hanging offence. Wrighty notes: They might have to bring back hanging

3. How fucking dare he compare football with defence of the realm! Aside from when the press sought to lynch David Beckham for petulantly kicking out at Diego Simeone, people do not run the risk of dying for our liberty because Roy Hodgson has decided to try something less old.

4. I repeat, it's football, you stupid cunt, there is no comparator between assaulting another country at the whim of some old fart and being a soldier.

5. Your home was burgled during the World Cup. If the culprits were to be found, they should, rather than do time, have to phone the family of a Great Train robber and apologise for the fucking rubbish target.

6. This
"Hello, is that Mrs Atkins, mother of soldier Tommy, who died in Afghanistan?"
"Yes, yes it is."
"I'm phoning to apologise to you. Roy Hodgson has called me up to play in a friendly against Narnia in forty minutes time on the Moon and I have declined the call up. I'm not even English, I'm Gareth Bale."
"Oh Gareth, I'm so sorry that that stupid fucking cunt Wright has put you up to this. Could you tell the FA and PFA to stop giving my number out?"
"Yes, Mrs Atkins."
"Tell them it's inappropriate that my loss, my grief at my son's death in a foreign land while doing the bidding of comfortable men in suits, is not a source of cheap fucking shots from a fucking dickhead ex-footballer..."
"Yes Mrs Atkins"
"... they kick a fucking pig's innards around for a living and get millions. If they want to help, they could start by shutting the fuck up on issues they cannot comprehend..."
"Yes Mrs Atkins"
"... and finally, tell them that it is particularly inappropriate to ring us as we're currently on our way back from the funeral."
"Yes Mrs Atkins."
"Thanks, Gareth. You don't have Ian Wright's number, do you? You see, I think every successful author should phone him when they have something published that doesn't rely on shock value and tell him what a fucking shit he really is...