, by Taki Theodoracopulos on June 17, 2010

Is there anything worse than listening to those hucksters in South Africa going bananas over the ugly game called football? Modern society is
dominated by emotion and propaganda, not to mention profit, and when all
three are combined what we get is the World Cup. Technicolor pictures
of fat men and women jumping up and down while blowing into a
contraption called vuvuzela dominate the front pages, as if an order had
come from up high to feature the most boorish and the fattest, cheering
for the most foul mouthed and overpaid

Posturing peacocks spouting gibberish go on ad nauseam about the brilliance of holding the cup in South Africa, a once wonderful country whose people will revert to murdering white farmers and each other the
moment the hucksters move out. Papa Hemingway said that one goes broke
slowly, then suddenly. The same goes for culture. It started in the
sixties, whiteness becoming a bad thing, and it’s been downhill ever
since. All those who stand in the way of political correctness and Third
World immigration are on the firing line, with special protection for
racial minorities, alternative lifestyles, feminists, and whatever else
the Left is about nowadays being paramount.

I must admit I snuck a look. I’ve never liked the game, although I was captain of my school team in my senior year, and goalkeeper to boot. So I felt badly for the England goalie, but the new ball is playing
tricks. (FIFA and Adidas change it every four years in order to make
more moolah.) I am fascinated by that swollen-nosed, non-stop f-worder
Wayne Rooney, a man obviously conceived by a chimp with a dose of the
clap. He sure can play, but he is to vulgarity and crudeness what
Hogarth was to squalor. His torrent of obscenities against all and
sundry is a shining example for our youth. Otherwise, it’s one big bore.
Greece vs. South Korea was as boring and bad as Slovenia against
Algeria, and Serbia playing Nigeria was no better.

FIFA is a con, a money-making con which pretends to be a link between nations and cultures. It’s nothing of the sort. FIFA is the Goldman
Sachs of sport, the Olympics being JP Morgan. Too many teams is the
problem. The World Cup should be 8, possibly 16 teams, and it should
take two weeks at most. The rest is all about moolah, political
correctness, and the opportunity for hacks (Rob Hughes, a very
knowledgeable football scribe) to write such immortal lines as the
following: “He is 25, born after apartheid ended, and quite possibly he
was meant to score this goal…The nippy winger, just 5 foot 7 inches,
tall and slender as a reed…” Gee, and I, at 5 foot 9 inches, have always
thought of myself on the short side. But I’m not black, nor South
African, and I guess that makes me one of the short, the bad, and the
ugly. Black is beautiful, although my old buddy Jean Marie Le Pen may
disagree. Le Pen caused outrage when he pointed out that the French team
that won the Cup in 2002 was nine-tenths black, but Christian charity
saved him from the hangman.

But enough about football. Back here in old England, things are looking up. An annoying wordsmith midget complains about becoming a grandfather and it becomes big news. I have good news for him. Another
midget across the channel has banned tall bodyguards, so if words ever
fail Martin Amis, he can always get a job acting as a heavy for Sarkozy.
And speaking of politics, if there is a Greek general around with some
ambition, I have an idea for him. A military coup. Yes, yes, I know,
those things don’t happen in Europe any more, but hear me out. The
Greeks are angry and ready to revolt. The rescue by the EU bankers is to
be borne by the debtors, while the French and German banks become the
beneficiaries. Why should the Greeks suffer in order to save foreign
banks, is the ambitious general’s cry to the people. Why not quit the
EU, default, repudiate the euro, restore the drachma, and devalue? He
moves the tanks toward the parliament building and his tankers are
showered with flowers by the mob. He then takes over the TV stations and
addresses the Greeks. “Our exports will become competitive as I speak,”
he roars. “Greece will become the site for everyone’s factories
overnight. With our currency devalued we will once again become the most
attractive destination for the world’s tourists.” The place goes wild
and he then asks the exiled King to assume the throne. Constantine
refuses, but by now the game is up. The next day I am named minister of
propaganda, and my first speech contains such gems as “ For far too long
the global elites who seek to reduce our nation to ethno-cultural
enclaves in a new world order run by bloodless bureaucrats, have had it
their way. Their loyalty is neither to the land nor people whence they
came. This government will restore your sovereignty. I swear it, or may I
die trying.” I am mobbed on the way to my favorite taverna, and get
very drunk on retsina, the peoples’ drink.

Well, it ain’t gonna happen. Greek generals are too fat and too soft and they retire much too early with a good pension. Mind you, it would be the most popular coup ever. Next week I will tell you about a great
Indian tennis player who played 101 matches at Wimbledon and is a great
friend.

• Email the Editor